Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  Trista craned around and Dulcie had to grab her arm. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean literally. But I can’t help thinking about what he said – about needing to protect himself.’

  ‘What?’

  Dulcie kicked herself. She hadn’t meant to tell anyone of her suspicions, but Trista was a friend. Not wanting to be overheard, she motioned her friend over to the bar and, in a whisper, shared Lloyd’s last words.

  ‘So, I’m wondering,’ she concluded.’ Do you think he could be involved somehow? Maybe he knows something. Maybe he’s trying a little blackmail?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dulce.’ Trista looked over her friend’s shoulder and then quickly down. ‘But I think we ought to go back to the table. Roger Gosham is staring at you, and he’s giving me the creeps.’

  FIFTY

  Tuesday morning dawned bright and clear, a fact Dulcie witnessed when her kitten landed on her head at a quarter after six. The little creature looked as surprised as Dulcie, round eyes huge in her bi-color face, and for all that she could have used the sleep, Dulcie found herself laughing.

  ‘You really are a handful, little girl.’ She lifted the kitten off the pillow, where she had slid, and placed her on the bed. Almost immediately, the kitten began washing, licking herself with a loud, sloppy sound that pretty much precluded Dulcie’s return to sleep. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  The kitten paused and turned toward her, blinking, before resuming her morning toilette. And so Dulcie, taking the only hint offered, got up to start her own day. The kitten followed her into the bathroom, staring curiously at the water and jumping the moment Dulcie turned it to the shower setting.

  ‘So you’re not psychic.’ Dulcie fought back a twinge of disappointment. Mr Grey hadn’t spoken to her when he was alive either. But had he ever been such a clown? As she lathered her hair, she wondered what her old favorite had been like as a kitten. Maybe she could ask him, next time they talked.

  What she should be doing in the meantime, she realized as she got dressed, was asking Lloyd some more questions. While she didn’t share Suze’s suspicions, something was definitely going on with the quiet scholar. What did he mean about having to protect himself, anyway?

  ‘Ouch.’ As if in response to her thoughts, the kitten had pounced, sinking her sharp teeth into Dulcie’s bare foot. ‘No! Bad!’ But the kitten had bounded away. If only Lloyd’s problems were so simple, but something – and it wasn’t Lucy’s intuition – made her think that more was at stake.

  Speaking of Lucy, Dulcie realized she owed her mother a call. Her voicemail had been beeping as she left the bar. And the message, when she retrieved it, made her a little worried about her mother’s sanity.

  ‘Never mind about the squash, dear,’ Lucy had said. Her mother had a tendency to pick up conversations wherever they had been left off – even if the other party wasn’t aware of them. ‘I’ve got it figured out. But do be careful about the book. The weirdness? There’s something about research there. Maybe you’re doing too much research, dear? Anyway, it’s not about love, I know that. I’ll tell you more when you call.’

  ‘It’s not about love?’ Well, if Lucy’s dreams were still focusing on The Ravages of Umbria, they had a point. In addition to the romantic themes, the book did touch on women’s self-reliance as well as the interaction between the physical and spectral planes. Dulcie had been excited to explore this as a metaphor for the mental and emotional components of our lives, back when she was still enthusiastic about her thesis. But knowing Lucy, Dulcie suspected a more spiritual interpretation was in the offing. Listening to the message again, as she waited for the coffee to brew, she checked the clock. No, with the time difference, she should wait until at least noon to call her mother. Maybe she’d have something to report by then.

  The walk into the Square was a pleasure, the day so brisk and clear it was hard to remember that she’d stumbled on a murder just over a week before. But that thought, once launched, skidded like a dark cloud over her day, and suddenly Dulcie didn’t want to be alone. Yes, she should get to work, in the library ideally. But first, she’d drop by the departmental office. Might as well refill her travel mug for free, she told herself, knowing full well that she craved the company as well as the coffee.

  ‘Dulcie!’ Nancy, the departmental secretary, hailed her as she came in. ‘Glad you came in. There’ve been some calls for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, about you, actually.’ Nancy gestured for her to come closer. ‘The police were saying it was routine, but . . .’ She shrugged her disbelief.

  ‘Did they ask about anyone else?’ Dulcie didn’t want to think about Lloyd, but she couldn’t help seeing his face.

  ‘No,’ Nancy leaned toward her. ‘Should they?’

  ‘No, no reason.’ Dulcie turned toward the mailboxes. Nothing but fliers.

  ‘You’ll probably see Lloyd Pruitt, won’t you?’

  Dulcie almost jumped at the name, but managed to turn and nod.

  ‘Would you give him this?’ The plump secretary handed a pink message slip to Dulcie, who automatically looked down at it.

  Couldn’t reach you on your cell. Please call a.s.a.p. Urgent. The last word was underlined three times and when she looked up, the question in her eyes, Nancy nodded. Dulcie glanced back down. The number was from out of town. The signature: A. Browning, Antiquarian Books.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Dulcie wasn’t sure what to think, but she took the message slip and headed out. She’d go to their office, she decided as she descended the stairs. Ideally, Lloyd would be there. If not, she could leave it on his desk. Unless . . . But, no, she realized. For all that they were close study buddies, she wasn’t exactly sure where Lloyd lived. Somewhere in Cambridgeport. An image of a cramped apartment in one of those old triple-deckers came to mind from a party the year before. Uneven floors. Bookshelves that had to be braced. Bookshelves full of stolen books? No, it couldn’t be. But the idea of rare books seemed even less likely.

  Maybe he was on an errand. Dulcie neared the Yard, the walk and the bright day improving her mood. Maybe he’d been tasked with finding something for Bullock, something Gosham didn’t have or couldn’t get. Dulcie pictured the craggy bookbinder. He wouldn’t like losing the professor as a client. But really, what could he do?

  That thought made her shiver, despite the sun. No. Nobody turned violent simply because of losing a customer. Though Dulcie wouldn’t be surprised if that was why Bullock had handed the errand to Lloyd. What had Lloyd said about the professor using his students? Making them do his dirty work? But if that was the case, why had Bullock turned on Lloyd and had him arrested? And what had Lloyd meant when he’d said that he had to defend himself? The force of her curiosity as well as rising wind propelled her down Broadway and in through the gate. Dulcie needed answers.

  But as she was about to descend to the warren of offices, her phone rang. She recognized the number – the community center back home. With a deep sigh, she settled down on one of the stone steps and answered.

  ‘Lucy, what’s up?’

  ‘Dulcie, thank the goddess I’ve reached you!’ As always, her mother sounded breathless.

  ‘I got your message about the squash.’ Dulcie had long ago learned not to react to her mother’s emotional state. ‘How is the group harvest going?’

  ‘Dulcinea Schwartz! Are you listening to me?’ Lucy sounded honestly exasperated, so her daughter assured her that, yes, indeed, she was. ‘This is serious. You haven’t gotten rid of that fake book yet. I can tell.’

  ‘Mom, I’m on it!’ Dulcie didn’t realize how much she’d picked up her mother’s mood until she heard her own voice. ‘It’s not like I can just abandon my thesis. I’ve been working for years, well, months on it. But I really am trying to get some definitive proof—’

  ‘You don’t need proof.’ Lucy cut her off. ‘That book is at the heart of everything, like a particularly nasty grub eating away at all that’s wholesome.’ The gardening quest
ion must have sparked Lucy’s imagination, Dulcie realized. Still, it was a vivid image.

  ‘Well, it won’t be for long, Lucy.’ Dulcie shifted to the side of the steps as a group of undergrads came clattering by. ‘I’ve got to give my adviser a progress report by the end of the week. So I’ve got to tell him then.’ With a sinking feeling, Dulcie realized what this would mean. The end of The Ravages of Umbria. The end of her thesis. Maybe the end of her graduate studies, unless she could find another topic – and fast. At least her mother would be at peace.

  ‘Tell him?’ But Lucy hadn’t seemed to get the message. Instead, her voice went up a notch. ‘Tell him?’

  ‘Lucy, what is it?’ Dulcie turned toward the wall and placed her hand over her other ear. Too many people were coming out of the building now, the big lecture hall upstairs must have just emptied – right as her mother seemed to be having some kind of crisis.

  ‘You don’t have to tell him, dear.’ For a moment, Dulcie felt herself relaxing. But, no, it was her own research, not her mother’s vision, that had made her doubt The Ravages. ‘You probably shouldn’t be talking to that man at all.’ Lucy had kept on talking. ‘He knows full well that book isn’t right. Or, at least, sometimes he does.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Dulcie leaned into the wall, trying for privacy. ‘Are you and Nirvana hitting the peyote again?’ Most students didn’t have to monitor their mother’s drug use, Dulcie knew. But really, this was getting ridiculous. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘Dulcie! I’m completely holistic, you know that.’ Dulcie nodded. She’d heard it before. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more clear. It’s not that clear to me, either.’ The line went silent, and Dulcie contemplated signing off. ‘Wait, Dulcie.’ Maybe her mother really was psychic. ‘Do you still have your spirit guide? Your cat?’

  Dulcie sighed. ‘Yes, Lucy, I do.’ At times like this, she wished she had never told her mother about Mr Grey’s visits.

  ‘Well, what does he say?’

  ‘He hasn’t said much lately.’ The truth of it hit her and she had to swallow. Hard. ‘Not about this, anyway.’

  ‘Well, since I can’t be there, you should listen to him, Dulcie. He sounds like a wise spirit. He’ll take care of you.’

  ‘Thanks, Lucy.’ Talking to her mother could be exhausting. ‘I promise, whenever Mr Grey talks to me, I’ll listen.’

  With that she finally did get to hang up and finish her descent down the stairs. The after-class crowd had cleared out, and her footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. A sliver of light shone from her partially open door, cheering Dulcie considerably. If she could talk to Lloyd, she could finally clear everything up. He probably hadn’t meant to be cryptic, and had simply not wanted to spill too much in front of a student.

  But as she got up to the door of the tiny office, Dulcie paused. Something was wrong. The wood around the latch was splintered, the brass plate hanging loose from the catch.

  ‘Lloyd?’ She heard the question in her voice as she touched the door. ‘Is that you?’

  The door swung open, and Dulcie gasped. Every book on the shelves had been torn out and tossed on the floor. Several – with dismay she recognized an anthology from Widener – had been pulled apart, their covers ripped from their pages. Both desks had been similarly defiled, shelves open and papers dumped everywhere. And worst of all, Dulcie realized as she stepped back into the hallway, she’d been given no warning. Someone had broken into her office – had violated her work space. And Mr Grey hadn’t said anything about it.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The campus police didn’t seem appropriately upset. As the aging patrolman had pointed out, it wasn’t like anything of value had been taken.

  ‘And I’m sure if you submit the report, the library system won’t hold you responsible for the damage.’ His partner, a young black woman, was already filling out the necessary paperwork. ‘This is unfortunate, but vandalism does happen.’

  ‘You think that’s what this was?’ Dulcie was sitting in the hallway. The senior cop had pulled her chair out of the wreck of her office, but its placement – outside, looking in – made her feel like a dunce. Like she was missing something.

  The older cop nodded. ‘We try not to publicize it, but there are tensions with the community, you know.’

  ‘But why here? Why me?’ The cops had seen the broken lock, she knew that.

  ‘Maybe the other offices were occupied?’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe this one looked easier?’

  ‘Are you asking for a particular reason, Ms Schwartz?’ The younger cop had finished with the form. ‘Are you thinking this could be personal? One of your students, perhaps?’

  Dulcie shook her head. She didn’t know what she was thinking. ‘It’s just, there’s been so much going on.’ She looked up at the young cop. ‘You know about Cameron Dessay?’ The two police exchanged a look. ‘I found him.’

  ‘You’ve had a hell of a couple of weeks, then.’ The older cop looked down at her. ‘Would you like a ride home?’

  Dulcie shook her head. ‘If you’re done, I think I should start cleaning up. And I should try to reach my office partner.’

  ‘Lloyd Pruitt, right?’ The younger cop said the name like she knew it. Dulcie nodded. She’d hoped to keep his name out of this, but of course, there it was: on the door, as well as on half the papers that now lay scattered on the floor. ‘We’ve got a call in to him as well, Ms Schwartz. I wouldn’t worry about him.’

  Two hours later, they were gone and a university maintenance worker was busy screwing a new brass plate on to the door. Dulcie hadn’t made much headway in cleaning up. The dust that had been raised was incredible, but at least she’d reshelved most of the books. None of hers were missing, she was pleased to see. And only two – the anthology and another beautiful old text, a leatherbound Ann Radcliffe lettered in gold leaf – had been damaged. The others just needed to be brushed off, and she’d enjoyed doing that, rediscovering some old favorites even as the airborne grime made her eyes water and her nose run.

  After taking a break to wash her hands – and to breathe – she’d come back to find the locksmith finishing up. She’d pocketed the new keys and closed the door, for privacy as much as anything else. She’d tried to make herself work on the papers, then, telling herself that Lloyd would prefer to reshelf his own books. She had no idea what order he’d had them in. But curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d decided to at least get them off the floor. Novels, essays, a few texts – including the latest edition of Bullock’s, with a new introduction by someone from Oxford – and some collections of critical works, all focusing on his specialty: eighteenth-century criticism. But nothing that looked any more valuable than what was on her shelves. Certainly nothing that would have interested Gosham, or any other antiquarian bookseller. And nothing Elizabethan either. She leaned back against her desk and surveyed the papers below her and the shelves in front of her. If the intruder had taken anything, she couldn’t see what.

  ‘There is no book,’ Lloyd had said. What had he meant by that? Clearly, there had been a book. A valuable book. Rare and beautiful.

  ‘Like your own, Dulcie?’ The voice came up behind her, nearly startling her off her seat. ‘Like your professor’s?’

  ‘Mr Grey?’ In the corner, where the slanting light from their one small window was captured in the slowly settling dust, she could just see the outline of a large cat. ‘What do you mean?’

  The image in the dust motes glowed and shimmered slightly, as if Mr Grey were purring, his wide paws kneading the paper he stood on.

  ‘My book – The Ravages – is a real book. I’m just not sure if it is what it claims to be.’ She shook her head, not understanding. ‘And Professor Bullock’s book was real, too. Or I think so, anyway.’ She tried comparing them. ‘They’re different eras. Different types of works. I don’t see the connection. Is it something in their lineage? Their history or origins?’ The purring seemed to increase. ‘Mr Grey?’

  But
just then the door opened, letting in a blast of air and scattering the dust into a disorganized swirl.

  ‘Dulcie!’ Lloyd came in, wide eyed at the mess. ‘What the hell happened?’ He looked around, taking it all in. ‘I swear, if that bastard Bullock is behind this, I’ll kill him.’

  ‘Lloyd?’ Dulcie could barely say his name. This was not the mild-mannered academic she was used to sharing an office with.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dulcie.’ He stepped in and closed the door behind him, surveying the damage. ‘I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have said that. Not after what you’ve been through.’ He smiled at her, looking for a moment like his normal self. ‘It’s just, well, to say that he and I are fighting would be an understatement.’

  ‘But he’s your boss. He’s—’

  ‘A full professor. Yes.’ Lloyd’s face grew grim. ‘The Cyrus University Professor of Eighteenth Century Literature. At least until further notice. But, no, he wouldn’t stoop to this. He wouldn’t have to, really. He can just discredit me.’

  ‘The arrest?’

  He nodded. ‘I think so. I’ve been calling him on some things. And so when I walked in and saw this . . .’

  ‘It was a break in. The university police said it was probably just vandalism.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it. I got a message to call them, but to be honest, I just figured they were doing the city cops’ dirty work.’ Lloyd was looking over his books, blowing the dust off the back of a volume of Richardson. ‘I mean, why make their job easier?’

  It was time. ‘Lloyd, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I saw that book on your desk. Raleigh dropped it off. And then we hear that a rare book has been stolen – and then you say there wasn’t any book, but you’re arrested anyway?’ She remembered the phone message. ‘And Nancy asked me to give you this.’ She held out the pink slip.

  He took it and read it, and then started laughing. ‘You thought I was stealing from Bullock? And selling his books?’