by Clea Simon
‘Tea?’ Without waiting for a response, she reached for a teapot on an upper shelf. Dulcie glanced at the clock. She had envisioned a short chat – a few questions, some quick answers, and then she’d be off. But this woman was clearly starved for company.
‘Sure.’ She settled into a kitchen chair and tried to plot out a line of questioning.
‘Chamomile OK?’
Dulcie swallowed hard. Chamomile was one of Lucy’s favorite cure-alls. But, hey, maybe Polly would cure what was ailing her tonight. She nodded and hoped her smile didn’t look overly strained.
‘It’s interesting that you brought up the Gunning.’ Polly brought over mugs and a plastic bear filled with honey. ‘That was one of the first major collections of British feminist writings, you know.’
‘I hadn’t realized that,’ Dulcie responded, half her mind on her own questions. ‘But there is one essay in it—’
‘Oh yes,’ Polly broke in. ‘Although it wasn’t published until, oh, mid-1840s, which is shameful, when you think about it. After all, many of the ideas espoused in those essays had been circulating for decades. But it was Horace Gunning who came up with the idea of anthologizing them, raising a subscription of more than five hundred for a first edition—’
‘Actually, it was the date on one of them.’
‘Really?’ Polly poured more tea, and then continued as if Dulcie had never spoken. ‘Gunning himself was said to have been influenced by his wife, an early follower of Mary Wollstonecraft . . .’
It was no use, Dulcie realized. Polly was on a roll. Either she had been denied a chance to discuss her favorite topics for so long that the pressure was unbearable. Or, and Dulcie felt a twinge of guilt at this thought, the older woman’s loneliness was more complete than she had realized. When Polly finally paused to take a sip of her own tea, which had to be cold by then, Dulcie tried one more time.
‘Polly, maybe you can help me.’ She spoke quickly, hoping to get her question out. ‘I’m worried because I found a phrase in an essay and it’s the same as one in a book that was supposedly published at least forty years earlier.’ She paused. Polly stayed quiet. ‘And I’m afraid it’s a fraud.’ There, she had said it.
‘Impossible.’ Polly’s pale face wrinkled up at the thought, and Dulcie felt a flood of relief.
‘Really? Thank you.’ Dulcie breathed easier than she had in an hour, and when Polly got up to heat more water, she vowed to do whatever was in her power to pay the older woman back. She’d have tea with her once a week. Even chamomile.
‘Definitely.’ Polly refilled the pot. ‘Those texts were all authentic. I know some people have questioned his methods, but Gunning was quite rigorous in his standards, collecting original documents and comparing versions. By the second edition . . .’
Dulcie groaned and caught herself. Polly had misunderstood – and she was trapped. ‘Would you excuse me?’ The tea made a convenient excuse, but in truth she just needed a moment alone to figure out a better strategy or an escape. The hallway was dark; the early dusk had fallen. She’d been in this house often enough to know where the bathroom was, even in the shadows. But she wondered at the lack of light. Was the professor saving energy? Should they turn on a lamp, just to welcome him home?
On her way back to the kitchen, Dulcie looked again into the library. Maybe she could convince Polly to let her look at the professor’s books. Bullock was no feminist, but in the interest of history, he undoubtedly had some other complete anthologies. There had to be an explanation. She reached to turn on the tall, ornate floor lamp and heard footsteps.
‘Were you looking for something?’ Dulcie turned to find Polly standing behind her.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Dulcie smiled to disarm the other woman, who had started to frown. Perhaps she felt Dulcie was brushing her off? ‘It’s just that I’m looking into an authentication, and I was wondering about other anthologies?’
‘The Gunning is the definitive work. Alpha and Omega.’ Polly stood, waiting for Dulcie to pass, back into the kitchen, but Dulcie couldn’t resist one last glance at the crowded library. Only the dim glow of the street lights came through the windows, but as a car drove by, the flash of headlights sent a wave of illumination over the room.
‘Oh, that’s so pretty.’ Before the light had faded, a flash of blue had caught her eye. Blue and a little gold, all set in a glass globe. ‘Is this from that store?’ She started toward it, and felt a hand on her upper arm.
‘That’s the professor’s.’ Polly pushed by her and drew the drapes. ‘And since he’s not here, I really couldn’t allow—’
Just then, Dulcie’s cell phone rang, startling them both. Although she didn’t recognize the number, she flipped it open.
‘Dulcie! Thank God I got you.’ It was Raleigh. On a Saturday night. Dulcie’s sense of relief turned to annoyance. Didn’t students have any sense of boundaries? But before she could remonstrate, Raleigh broke in. ‘You’ve got to help me. Help us. It’s Lloyd. He’s been arrested!’
‘What?’ Dulcie must have yelled, because Polly stopped short. But volume didn’t work with Raleigh, who was too upset to make much sense. Finally, Dulcie got her to explain that Lloyd had been taken from his apartment by the Cambridge Police. What the distraught undergrad had been doing there she hadn’t said.
‘It’s Lloyd,’ Dulcie said as soon as she’d gotten off the phone. Polly blinked once, which Dulcie took as recognition. ‘He’s been arrested.’ Suddenly, she realized that she didn’t know the charges. Could there be some sensible explanation? A bad check or disgruntled landlord? So much had happened recently that she had automatically assumed the worst . . .
‘That makes sense.’ Polly’s calm declaration interrupted the whirl of her thoughts, and as if that had settled everything, she turned to walk back into the kitchen.
‘Why? What do you mean?’ Dulcie followed Polly and watched as she calmly began washing the mugs, fighting the urge to grab the thin blonde and shake her. ‘Do you know what’s going on?’
‘I believe so.’ Polly put the mugs upside down on the rack and began on the teapot. ‘And I have to say, it isn’t unexpected after Professor Bullock’s complaint.’ She seemed so calm, so matter-of-fact that Dulcie found herself paradoxically panicked, as if Polly’s calm presaged the worst.
‘What?’ Dulcie couldn’t stop herself. She reached for Polly’s arm. ‘Polly, please. I’ve known Lloyd for years. You have, too.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t talk out of school.’ Polly paused and Dulcie forced herself to wait. Lloyd certainly had reason to complain about the professor’s treatment of him. Had he said something? Done something? It took all her will not to tighten her grip on Polly’s thin arm. But in that moment, Polly had reached a decision. ‘Professor Bullock has noticed certain items have gone missing.’ She reached for a dish towel, pulling away from Dulcie.
‘What do you mean, Polly?’ None of this was making sense.
‘Valuable items.’ Polly dried her hands and turned to face her. ‘A Montblanc fountain pen, things like that. Professor Bullock is a good man and for the longest time he didn’t want to do anything. But, really, this time Lloyd has gone too far.’
‘How does he know it’s Lloyd?’ Dulcie refused to believe it.
Polly shrugged. ‘He had access and everyone knows he’s just scraping by. I don’t know why now. Maybe a little ghost said something.’
The ghost reference was probably a joke. After all, Polly knew as well as anyone about Dulcie’s area of specialization. But Dulcie was in no mood to laugh. Instead, she just stood there, staring at the wall, trying to make sense of the idea. Lloyd a thief? No, it didn’t seem possible. But she couldn’t stop thinking of the package on his desk. A wrapped book, much like the rare and beautiful ones from Gosham’s, and just that night, Professor Bullock had reported a book stolen.
FORTY-ONE
No. Everyone knew that the theft report had been retracted. At least, that’s what the scuttlebutt in the department had been
– once Lloyd had mentioned it. Could Lloyd have spread that rumor to cover his own tracks?
Dulcie shook her head. This was her colleague they were talking about. She needed to help him. Excusing herself, she turned away from Polly and punched in a number.
‘Suze? Glad I got you.’ As quickly as she could, and knowing full well that Polly was right behind her, Dulcie explained the situation. The answer was not what she wanted.
‘No way, Dulcie.’ Suze sounded friendly, but firm. ‘For starters, I’m still a student, too, remember? And the legal clinic doesn’t take on criminal cases. Besides, Dulce, how do you know he’s innocent? I mean, Lloyd’s name has been coming up an awful lot recently.’
‘That’s because he’s in the department.’ Dulcie fought to keep her voice level. ‘And he’s entitled to some kind of defense.’
‘Which he’ll get.’ Suze continued. ‘I’m sure.’
‘I’m not.’ Dulcie tried to recall if Lloyd had ever mentioned any family. ‘Hey, Suze, can I call you back?’
‘Sure.’ Suze sounded warmer now. ‘Or you can just come home. Really, Dulcie, this sounds like a minor matter. They probably won’t even hold him.’
Dulcie wasn’t so sure, and the idea of her gentle officemate stuck in a holding cell on a Saturday night wasn’t fun. She tried to think. Lloyd might not have family, but he clearly had one well-to-do friend. Scrolling back through her calls, she found Raleigh’s number. The call went direct to voicemail – she must be on the phone – but Dulcie left a message.
‘Raleigh, it’s Dulcie again. Dulcie Schwartz.’ She paused, not sure how to ask. ‘Since you seem to know Lloyd so well, would you have a contact for his family? Or, well, would you know anybody who could bail him out?’
‘Bail?’ She heard the voice behind her and turned. Polly was staring. ‘Do you think they’d give him bail?’
Dulcie snapped the phone shut, Raleigh forgotten. ‘Why wouldn’t they, Polly? It’s just theft – a property crime, right?’ Dulcie was no expert, but all those years living with Suze must have taught her something.
Polly only shrugged. ‘For starters,’ she said, her voice maddeningly calm. ‘But from what the professor was saying, I think they may also want to talk to him about Cameron’s . . . about the incident.’
Incident? The word hit Dulcie like a punch in the stomach. ‘They suspect Lloyd of murder?’
Polly shrugged her thin shoulders again, and Dulcie wondered again just who this woman was.
‘That’s just not possible.’
‘Who knows what men are capable of?’ Polly turned, as if to go back to the kitchen. ‘Do you think I should make more tea?’
Muttering something she hoped was coherent and not too rude, Dulcie grabbed her coat and headed for the door. Something was definitely off at Professor Bullock’s, but Lloyd was more likely the victim than the culprit. And if Polly was having personal problems, she added as she jogged down the stairs, they weren’t Roger Gosham’s fault.
She headed back toward the Square with one thought in mind: Chris. No matter what was going on with their relationship, he’d listen. And Dulcie needed someone to do that now – someone who didn’t think strictly in terms of law and liability. Suze’s response had shocked her. Her roommate was undoubtedly being sensible, and trying to look out for Dulcie, too. But the legalistic nature of it had been a little cold, a little harsh. Maybe, thought Dulcie, it was just as well she wasn’t going to Thanksgiving at Suze’s this year. Was this distance the natural outcome of them each having different specializations, a gradual shift that was only now settling them into different world views? Or was it simply that they hadn’t spent that much time together recently, both of them so caught up in their studies – and with their new boyfriends – that neither knew what the other found important? That thought stopped her, and Dulcie paused halfway across the bare Common. Were she and her old friend drifting apart? Would she and Suze ever be as close as they had been, all those single, lonely years before? A pang went through Dulcie, matched by a gust of frigid air. Night had dropped Cambridge into a frosty chill, but the stinging in her eyes wasn’t all from the wind.
‘No pizza?’ To his credit, after his initial disappointment Chris looked happy to see her. And as soon as she started to explain what had just happened he even waved off a tired-looking student to tune in.
‘Five minutes, Sal. Check your coding.’ He’d glanced around. ‘Hey, let’s surface, Dulcie. I can take five.’
She followed gratefully as he led the way up to the Science Center café, hanging back only when two more students waylaid him. They were worried that he was leaving, basically, and once he calmed them down he and Dulcie were able to retreat, snagging a corner table for bad coffee and warm chocolate chip cookies, still so hot the chips were molten.
‘So, Lloyd is in jail?’ Chris had helped Dulcie deal with a situation the previous summer, and they both had some experience with the law. ‘Or is he just being questioned?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dulcie bit her lip. ‘I should have asked Raleigh. She just said he’d been arrested and I assumed the worst. But maybe the cops just picked him up to talk to him. Hang on.’ She tried Lloyd’s apartment and then his cell, getting voicemail in both places. Another call to Raleigh had the same result. ‘All this communications technology, and we still can’t simply talk.’
‘I’m wondering.’ Chris pushed the plate toward her; a large chunk remained. ‘You thought the cops were looking at Professor Bullock for Cameron’s murder, right?’
‘Yeah.’ Dulcie thought back, and ate the cookie. ‘But he couldn’t have done that – I mean, I was there.’
‘Well do you think he ended up talking to them about something else? About the thefts?’ Chris used one long finger to nail a crumb, under the guise of making a point. ‘I mean, maybe he set some kind of trap.’
‘I don’t know.’ Strangely, Dulcie wasn’t finding it unbelievable that her thesis adviser might want to sabotage a student. ‘I just don’t know if he could be that organized.’
Chris looked at her, and she shrugged. ‘He’s just sort of the absent-minded professor these days. I mean, he keeps losing things.’ She paused. ‘Unless someone really has been stealing from him.’
‘Could it have been Lloyd? I mean, not the murder . . .’
But Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, no way. I’ve never had any qualms about leaving my bag in our office, or anything like that.’
‘But you’re another student, as broke as he is. And the professor has this big, fancy house up on Tory Row. Plus, from everything you’ve said, Lloyd has reason to resent Bullock. Maybe, this was a little revenge.’
‘No, no way.’ Dulcie stared at the table, looking for the answer in the patterned linoleum. When she looked up at Chris, her voice was firm. ‘What you’re saying makes sense, but that just isn’t Lloyd. I mean, I’m not Lucy, but I do have a sense about people.’
Chris smiled and reached for her hand. ‘Yes, you do. But if the cops don’t have any evidence, why would he be under arrest?’
‘You’re so rational.’ Dulcie squeezed her boyfriend’s hand. ‘But you forgot one option. Maybe it’s simply that whatever implicated Lloyd could apply to someone else as well.’
‘Maybe.’ Chris stared off at the space above Dulcie’s head, and she wondered for a moment if he was thinking of getting another cookie. ‘But there’s something amiss here. I mean, there’s been a pretty brutal murder.’ Dulcie knew what he meant, even if it was close to a tautology, and didn’t interrupt. ‘And the police are arresting someone for a property crime?’
‘Well, life goes on.’ Dulcie turned it over in her head. ‘And if the professor complained . . .’
‘Yeah, but why? One of his prize students is dead, and he’s bringing charges against another of his protégés for, what? For pocketing a pen or something? I’m wondering if there’s something else going on here. Like, maybe it’s because Lloyd is the only one who didn’t drink the Kool-Aid.’ Chris loo
ked at her. ‘I mean, besides you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t know the man, but from everything you say, he’s a self-important jerk who hasn’t done any real work in thirty years. And yet, he’s revered like he’s some kind of genius.
‘Twenty years, and he is a tenured professor,’ said Dulcie, as if that explained everything. ‘And English is a little different from Applied Math. But, hey, what did you mean about the professor bringing charges?’
‘Why else would Lloyd have been arrested? At least, if he really was arrested for theft.’
Dulcie had nothing more to say to that and slumped back in her seat. When Chris got up a few moments later, she raised her face for a kiss, but kept sitting there, long after her boyfriend had gone. The cafe stayed open all night, and as she sat, Dulcie was dimly aware of comings and goings, computer-pale faces and the enticing aroma of those cookies. But all she could think about was her officemate and her professor. Something was going on, and she had no idea how to get at the truth.
FORTY-TWO
Her dreams didn’t help. This time, she was desperately searching a mountain-top castle, the high Alpine winds whistling outside as she tried to find the keys to the dungeon. She kept turning corners, sure she’d find them on a hook inside the next door. She could picture them, oversized antiques on a big, iron ring. But they were never where they should be.
‘Misplaced or stolen?’ A familiar voice cut through the wind. ‘And who would know?’
In her dream, glowing green eyes stared out of a shadowy corner, but when she looked closer, they were gone. ‘Mr Grey? What do you mean?’
The wind must have found a crack because suddenly a tuft of ash and smoke blew up from the fireplace, stinging her eyes. She stepped back and felt something brush against her legs. Something soft and strangely warm. ‘Think about it, Dulcie. Who would care?’
It was no use. She woke in the dark to find the new kitten ricocheting off the walls. ‘Kitten!’ she called and the little cat stopped in her tracks, stared at Dulcie, and bulleted off down the hall. ‘Wonderful.’ Dulcie knew she wasn’t being fair. Odds were, her disrupted sleep was what was causing the young animal to tear off like that. But she couldn’t help feeling somehow misled. There was only one cat she wanted, and he was gone. No matter what anyone said about kitten behavior, she couldn’t imagine Mr Grey had ever acted so crazed. And now, even in her dreams, he had grown frustratingly remote, his questions elliptical and evasive.