Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  She drifted off, only to find herself in a different part of the same castle. This time, she could hear someone in the basement, rattling a door, and she felt the pressure to act – and act swiftly. But no matter how many stairs she raced down, how many heavy oak doors she pushed open, she couldn’t find the keys. Only the sight – the merest glimpse – of a grey tail, somewhere ahead, kept her going, and she woke again, more tired than she’d been, with the same questions ringing in her mind. ‘Whoever was being stolen from, that’s who would care.’ She punched her pillow into place. ‘And we already know that Professor Bullock thinks Lloyd is to blame.’

  Do we? She sat up. This time, she’d heard the voice while awake. ‘Mr Grey?’

  ‘Dulcie, Dulcie.’ She felt, as much as heard, a soft padding, as if her late pet were settling in at the foot of her bed. ‘Sometimes, you are such a kitten.’ She was about to ask about that when she heard a crash and a muffled mew. Sleep would have to wait.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with this animal.’ Dulcie was on her knees by the broken geranium pot when Suze came down the stairs, tying her robe. Beside the shattered clay pot, just visible in the first light of dawn, the tiny kitten was licking dirt off a white bootie.

  ‘She’s just a kitten, Dulcie.’ Suze yawned. ‘She probably wanted to play.’ Behind her, Ariano appeared, his black curly hair sticking up like a fright wig.

  ‘Everything OK down here?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry to wake you guys up.’ Dulcie finished brushing the dirt into the dustpan and looked around for a place to put it. Suze fetched the kitchen garbage.

  ‘Here. I think that plant might be history.’

  Dulcie examined the broken stem. It had still been blooming, too. ‘Kitten. What are we going to do with you?’

  ‘Oh, she’s a cutie.’ Ariano reached for the kitten, her tiny body dwarfed by his broad hands. He stroked the flat black fur between her ears and soon her eyes were closed, a loud purr filling the room. ‘She’s been trying to get your attention, see?’

  He handed the sleepy kitten over to Dulcie, and she held the small animal up to her cheek. So warm, so soft, and so small. Just a baby, really, and here she was expecting her to assume the duties of a full-grown cat. A particularly wise cat. The purr was hypnotic and Dulcie realized her eyes were closing.

  ‘Good night, Dulcie.’ She looked up to see Suze smiling back at her, before she followed a yawning Ariano back upstairs.

  ‘Back to bed, little one?’ Dulcie nuzzled the sleeping kitten, who woke and stared at her, eyes as big and green as those in her dream. What was it about those eyes? Dulcie found her thoughts drifting as she followed her roommate and her boyfriend up the stairs. ‘Cool as emeralds,’ yes, but something else. The purring was softer now, the kitten once again beginning to doze in her arms. There was something else, something she was forgetting. She stumbled into bed and pulled the blanket over them both, the kitten now a warm weight against her neck. ‘Sleep, little one. Time for all of this in the morning.’

  ‘Was that you, kitten? Are you the little one?’ Dulcie murmured, her face against the powder soft fur. ‘Or am I?’ But the kitten was fast asleep.

  FORTY-THREE

  She woke with a start, the pain sharp and sudden. ‘What?’

  There was the kitten, batting at her exposed foot, the needle-sharp claws just piercing her skin. ‘Kitten!’

  With a startled look, the kitten bounced off the bed and bounded out of the room. But the damage was done. Dulcie was awake and, despite her troubled night, more sleep didn’t seem likely. Sun was streaming in around her curtains and she sat up, rubbing her sore foot. She was going to have to do something about that kitten, when it hit her.

  The missing connection: Bullock’s letter opener, with its decorative hilt and emerald ‘eye.’ It, too, looked sharp, for such a tiny thing. Sharp enough to be a murder weapon. When she’d told Suze about it, her roommate had wondered out loud about the possibility, and Dulcie had dismissed the idea, unable to believe such a pretty thing could have inflicted those horrible wounds. But that was before she’d seen Polly pocketing it.

  In some ways, Suze’s theory now made sense. Polly seemed to be quite dependent on the professor. If he had killed Cameron, she would want to dispose of the murder weapon. She was certainly acting oddly enough. Perhaps they had planned the act together, and she was only now getting rid of the evidence . . .

  No, that didn’t work. She reached for a pair of socks, determined to protect her toes from further damage. Bullock had been meeting with her when Cameron had been attacked. And unless Polly was a very skilled actress, she had truly been shocked by the discovery of the body.

  Of course, the older woman could be a good faker. Dulcie pulled on her sweats and considered this possibility. In fact, she realized, she was only beginning to discover Polly’s depths.

  The kitten careened into the room and Dulcie reached for her, unable to resist. ‘Could Polly have done it, little one? Could she and the professor have been in cahoots? Are they framing Lloyd?’

  The kitten squirmed and Dulcie put her down. ‘No, you’re right.’ She sat back on the bed with a thud. This wasn’t a parlor game. She had seen Cameron. Seen what had become of all his spark and vigor. Even now, the shock of it made her head spin. Polly couldn’t have been faking it. And besides, if the other woman had been involved, wouldn’t she have had enough sense to get rid of the murder weapon before now?

  Maybe it wasn’t the murder weapon, and maybe her dreams had nothing to do with the crime. Between her thesis and this rambunctious kitten, she had plenty of other things to disrupt her sleep.

  ‘You awake, Dulcie?’ Suze’s voice reached her with the scent of melting butter. ‘Pancakes?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ Dulcie shouted back and reached for her robe. More likely her original thought had been correct, and Polly had just been doing some housecleaning, picking up after her scatterbrained boss.

  Unless . . . She stopped on the landing, struck by a thought. Polly had said that things were being stolen. Dulcie herself had seen the professor upset, first about a missing pen and then about that letter opener. But what if Polly were the thief, and she had framed Lloyd? Maybe there was some kind of rivalry, a competition for the professor’s favors, that Dulcie didn’t know about.

  Except that if Polly was stealing, why was the pretty little sword still in the professor’s house? And what about that book, the one wrapped up like a rare piece from Gosham’s, that Raleigh had left on Lloyd’s desk?

  ‘On the table!’ Suze yelled, and Dulcie shelved her queries until further notice.

  Fortified by breakfast, Dulcie claimed the sofa and spread out her notes around her, determined to finish the anthology and see if any more unpleasant surprises awaited. If she couldn’t figure out the rest of her life, she could at least work on the mystery of the dubious authorship. But between the kitten’s rampages and the sounds of Suze cleaning up, and accompanying herself with her off-key singing, she found she forgot each page as she read it. Maybe it was the subject – those essays were uneven at best – but she just couldn’t focus.

  When she complained to Suze, coming in for yet another cup of coffee, her roommate was no help. ‘You could come for a run. Ariano’s heading out for work, so I thought I’d do a few miles along the river.’

  Dulcie looked at her, not even sure how to answer.

  Suze saw the look on her face and, to her credit, cracked up. ‘Come on, Dulce. It wouldn’t hurt to try. You might even like it.’

  That laugh broke the ice. She didn’t dare call Chris yet; with his schedule he’d be asleep till at least one. But Suze had come through for her before. Plus, her roommate had a pretty complete knowledge of the law, if not actually a license to practice yet. ‘Actually, Suze, can I ask you about some legal stuff?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Suze sounded doubtful as she refilled both their mugs and took a seat at the table. Suze clearly expected Dulcie to go on about Lloyd, but she became thoughtful whe
n Dulcie told her about her strange visit with Polly. By the time she was through, Suze had made even more coffee.

  ‘Well, there’s a lot going on here. More than you should necessarily be involved with.’ She shot her roommate a look as she topped off her mug.

  ‘Thanks, Mom.’ Dulcie couldn’t take it too seriously. Besides, it felt nice to have someone looking out for her on a non-astral plane.

  ‘Seriously, Dulce. You know I had my doubts about this Lloyd from the start. Wait!’ She held up a hand to stop the response she knew was coming. ‘I’m just saying that I was thinking about the stealing. There really might be more there than you know. More than just need, anyway. Remember that criminal psych course I took last spring? Kleptomania is something you see developing in depressed or frustrated people as they near their thirties. Some people want it treated as a disease—’

  ‘Suze!’ Dulcie slammed her mug so hard on the table that coffee sloshed over the side. ‘This is a colleague we’re talking about. Someone I’ve known for years.’

  ‘I know, Dulce. But think about it. He’s overworked. OK, that’s no different from any of us. But you’ve already said he’s become erratic. And now this hot new student appears out of nowhere?’

  ‘The way you’re talking, you’d have him under suspicion for murder, too.’

  Suze shrugged. ‘I’d rather not think that way. But if I were the police, I might.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  Suze was lacing up her sneakers as Dulcie hit the phone. There was still no answer from Lloyd, but Suze had explained that even for a minor charge, he’d probably have been held over till Monday, when he could be arraigned, before being released. Raleigh was either out of town or not returning her calls. Finally, she mustered her nerve and dialed the professor’s residence. If Polly answered, well, she’d deal with it then.

  To her relief, the gruff voice that greeted her was Professor Bullock’s and it wasn’t a recording. When she said she was hoping to speak with him, though, he sounded less than pleased.

  ‘Dulcie, can’t this wait? If you call back tomorrow, you can set up an appointment with Polly or come to my regular office hours.’

  ‘It’s . . . well, it’s important, sir.’ Dulcie swallowed. She’d never insisted on anything with the professor before. It felt odd. ‘It’s about my officemate, Lloyd.’

  Silence greeted her, and for a moment she was afraid she’d offended. After all, he was Professor William Alfred Bullock, Cyrus Professor of Eighteenth Century Literature, and she was little Dulcie Schwartz. But she hung on and finally a loud sigh announced that the professor was still on the line.

  ‘Very well.’ He sounded resigned, as if to something highly unpleasant. ‘I knew word would get out. Hang on a moment.’

  In the pause that followed, Dulcie felt her resolve drain away. She was a grad student. He was a tenured professor. What right did she have to question him? Should she apologize for disturbing him on a Sunday? After all, they had never settled the issue of her progress report, and her academic future depended on his continued good will. She wouldn’t ask. She couldn’t. She would simply express her concern over Lloyd’s absence and let the professor spin whatever story he chose. She would accept it, thank him, and hang up, after apologizing for being a nuisance.

  ‘Dulcie!’ The voice, sounding just to her left, made her stop and a sharp pain – like the nip of an annoyed feline – caused her to turn. No, there was no grey cat in the room. But the bite did make her sit up just as the professor came back on the line.

  ‘So, how may I help you today?’ She could imagine the professor, settling in on that library settee. He wasn’t going to make this easy.

  ‘I was trying to reach my officemate, Lloyd Pruitt, yesterday.’ She paused. Silence. ‘Your assistant?’ After a moment’s hesitation, she heard a grunt of acknowledgment. ‘And I heard that he was taken down to the Cambridge Police Department.’ That seemed a noncommittal and yet accurate way of describing what she knew. The professor remained silent. ‘And, well, I believe I’d heard that you were talking with the police, too. And I was wondering if you could tell me what is going on with Lloyd?’

  ‘Yes, well.’ She heard a rustling and wondered if he’d been listening to anything she’d said. She could easily picture him reading the Sunday Times as she’d gone on. But after another pause, he spoke. ‘I’ve been talking with the officials quite a lot,’ he said. ‘About the unfortunate incident last week, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dulcie swallowed and forced herself to say the words. ‘The murder.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You were there, weren’t you?’ She nodded, unable to speak, but he didn’t seem to care. ‘They seem to believe that the attack was personal. That it wasn’t just some random street thug who happened to wash up on my stoop.’

  Dulcie waited, wondering where this was heading.

  ‘And they seem to believe there were some unsavory aspects to young Cameron’s life.’ Dulcie wanted to interrupt – not that she was sure what to say – but the professor kept on. ‘Not that I know anything about that, of course. But from where I sit, I do have rather a bird’s-eye view. I had some insights that I thought they would be interested in.’

  ‘Was it Raleigh? Was he involved with an undergrad?’ She hadn’t meant to speak, hadn’t wanted to break his train of thought or to offer a theory. The words had just spilled out. ‘Or Polly?’

  The pause made her wonder if she’d gone too far. But he must have been simply weighing the possibilities. ‘I wasn’t aware of any involvement with anyone,’ he said, finally, the heavy emphasis slowing his gravelly cadence more than usual. ‘Certainly not Polly Heinhold. Polly is a scholar. Esteemed. And much too old for him.’

  Curiouser and curiouser. Dulcie waited for the professor to continue. Could the rumors be true about a more intimate connection between the professor and his faithful assistant? If so, where did Roger Gosham fit in? Or Cameron for that matter? And what did any of this have to do with Lloyd?

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean anything.’ Another silence. She’d have to prompt him. ‘You were telling me about Lloyd?’

  ‘Was I?’ Bullock’s voice took on a new sternness, and Dulcie felt a retraction on her lips. Before it could form, however, he continued. ‘Yes, Lloyd Pruitt. He was another promising scholar. A bit too forward, perhaps. And so when the detective in charge asked me about those in our circle, well, I could do no less than be honest.’

  He’d framed Lloyd. The realization made Dulcie gasp. ‘Murder? You told the police that Lloyd could have murdered Cameron?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Whatever else did you think was going on?’

  ‘Theft. Robbery.’ Dulcie was aghast. ‘I thought that someone was stealing. That things were going missing.’

  ‘Pah!’ He dismissed the notion. ‘Nonsense. I can tell you where every book in my library is at any given time. That’s how I made my reputation, you know. A mind for details. Now, if you’ll excuse me, young lady, I really should be getting back to work. And you . . .’ He paused, and she could imagine his piercing glare. ‘You should be working hard, too. Don’t forget, I expect you to be able to show me significant progress on your thesis. Significant.’

  ‘But, Professor, I thought that with everything that’s been going on—’

  ‘A scholar doesn’t let anything interfere. I take deadlines seriously, young lady, and I expect my students to do so as well. In fact, I’d like to see something by the end of the day, Thursday. Something concrete.’ And with that, he hung up.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ‘He’s lying, I know he is.’ After getting off the phone, Dulcie had gone over to Chris’s. She found him just stirring. ‘There’s something fishy going on, I’m telling you.’

  ‘You’re thinking because Mr Grey—’

  ‘Chris!’ She cut him off just as his roommate, Jerry, walked in.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Jerry’s red hair stuck out at all angles. Clearly, neither resident of th
e tiny Central Square apartment had gotten to bed till late. ‘Is that coffee?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ Dulcie poured him a cup and topped off her own. ‘Except for the fact that my thesis adviser expects me to keep working as if nothing has happened. When, in truth, there was just a murder in my department, and I’m pretty sure my thesis adviser was involved.’

  Jerry nodded and sipped at the coffee. ‘From what Trista tells me about your department, I’m not totally surprised. Talk about Gothic!’

  ‘I’m serious, Jerry. And I think he might be trying to frame my friend Lloyd.’ Both men looked at her, and she found herself reaching for something more to add. ‘And there’s a chance I might have found the murder weapon – a letter opener.’

  ‘Dulcie, isn’t it possible . . .?’ Chris started to say something – probably about her emotional reaction to the new deadline – but, seeing her face, reached for the Cheerios instead.

  Jerry, ignoring the tension, scratched his head and looked at her. ‘Shouldn’t you be telling the cops this?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Dulcie paused. ‘Only, to be honest, it’s more of a hunch than anything else.’

  ‘A hunch that came about after your friend was arrested.’ Chris waved his spoon to make his point, a habit Dulcie usually found endearing.

  ‘Chris, it was before that.’ Today she felt hamstrung. How could she talk about Mr Grey with Jerry there? ‘And it was Suze’s idea originally.’