Shades of Grey

by Clea Simon

  ‘Especially your artsy-fartsy room-mate, right?’ Dulcie kicked and a pillow went flying. The pillow that Mr Grey had been most fond of, she noted, with a sinking feeling. She glanced over and saw the red velvet plush on the floor. Against the aquarium-green of the carpet, it looked particularly hideous. She’d only kept it so long because her cat had liked it. Maybe it was time for a change. If only she had money for redecorating; for new cushions, or an entirely new sofa . . .

  But she didn’t. ‘Dulcie?’ Suze sounded concerned, but Dulcie sank further back into the old sofa’s remaining cushions. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  Dulcie allowed herself the comfort of one more self-indulgent sigh.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK, Suze.’ She was, really, and sat up to prove it to herself. ‘It’s just that I feel, well, picked on. But, you know what? It’s making me mad. I mean, why should I be running and hiding and making excuses? I’m sick of it! I’m not going to hide from my neighbors – or the police – anymore.

  ‘That’s my girl. You feeling better now?’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Thanks, Suze. Thanks so much. Tomorrow, I’m going in to talk to my boss at Priority. I won’t be a scapegoat.’

  Of course, her work situation was the least of her problems, Dulcie thought as she and Suze said goodnight. But she was smart, wasn’t she? She was Dulcie Schwartz, survivor of the Oregon forest, possibly psychic grad student, and just a whisper away from finding her thesis topic. Maybe, if she could straighten out her work situation, she could also make some headway on her bigger problems. She would not interfere with the police, though. Dulcie had enough sense not to do that. But, hey, the police seemed to be on the wrong track, whereas she had inside knowledge. She’d tried to pass along leads, but that had only gotten her in trouble. Maybe this time she should follow some of those leads herself. Tim wasn’t much of a room-mate, but he deserved justice – and so did she. What was the use of a Harvard education, if it wouldn’t help one girl solve a murder?

  Twenty-Three

  Dulcie woke from a troubled night to the realization that she hadn’t called her mother back. In her dream, she’d been watching Mr Grey. He, however, had not been watching her. He’d been faced toward a crack in the siding, a tiny gap between radiator and wall, his entire body tense with anticipation. The key is to stay close. Even though he wasn’t facing her, she heard that voice in her ear and knew that the concentrating cat was communicating with her. That’s how you get them. Listen! His large ears twitched. And be careful.

  The nature of the dream left her dissatisfied and anxious, perhaps because she hadn’t been able to see her beloved pet’s face. It also left her wanting to go over the kitchen with a flashlight. Now that there wasn’t a feline on the premises, mice were a definite possibility.

  But first, she should call her mother. She looked over at the clock. Lucy had sounded frantic, not that this was unusual. But even torn up with her own crazy fears, Dulcie doubted her mother would be up at five a.m., West Coast time. She’d just have to call during her lunch break. Which she would take today, come hell or high water.

  Rather to her surprise, Dulcie encountered neither on her way in to Priority. The day was bordering on cool, one of those early August surprises that presage fall in New England. The sky was even blue, instead of its usual washed-out summer white, and the security guard smiled at her when she opened her bag. Of course, her desk was still in the office equivalent of Siberia. But Dulcie had come prepared: she’d brought earplugs to block out the noise of the message center.

  This must be what most of the country feels like, she told herself, as she settled in, logged on, and started typing up the day’s forms. This kind of brainless work was hypnotic, actually, the earplugs magnifying the sound of her breathing. She might be a drone, but she was an effective drone. Her productivity had never been higher.

  Two hours and forty-six forms later, Dulcie’s outlook had faded a bit. The unrelieved tedium of the codes had progressed from numbing to painful, and the loud rasp of her breathing had begun to make her think of an iron lung. She pushed back from her terminal and popped the earplugs from her ears. Maybe, the thought hit her, her parents had had a good reason to drop out of the corporate rat race.

  ‘Wow, where did that come from?’

  Only when she looked up at the large circular desk did she realize she’d spoken out loud. Too many hours in her own head had almost made her forget the phone bank, and now four pairs of eyes turned toward her. ‘Sorry!’ She waved and smiled at the four women, a mismatched set of two very large and two rather short, but still round, women. ‘Just talking to myself!’

  Two sets of eyes blinked, but they all turned away. After her hours in relative silence, their voices sounded abnormally loud to Dulcie. And they weren’t, she noticed, answering calls.

  ‘Her? Are you sure? That little thing?’

  ‘Uh-huh, that’s what Billy – the cute guard? – told me he’d heard from Wallace.’

  Keeping her face forward, Dulcie leaned slightly toward the message center. Maybe it was just gossip. But maybe she could learn something to salvage her wreck of a week.

  ‘So, are they going to make an arrest?’ Time on the switchboard must have made the larger of the big women deaf. Her whisper was as loud as a shout.

  ‘I think so. Maybe even today.’ One of the short women drummed her finger on the desk for emphasis.

  ‘Maybe they’ll take her out in handcuffs.’ The other woman could have been her twin.

  ‘That would be something, wouldn’t it?’ The big woman wasn’t even trying to whisper now. ‘Serve her right though. Endangering all of us here.’

  Dulcie leaned too far and her chair began to tilt. Reaching out, she caught herself, but not before all the eyes had turned on her again. Who were they talking about? Could it be Joanie? Could it be her? She looked up at the message center ladies, but they’d dispersed to their posts. With a few glances between them, they’d resumed their duties, and Dulcie couldn’t tell if it was because she’d made them aware that they could be overheard – or because she was the object of their mean-spirited chat.

  ‘Priority. Can I help you? Please hold.’

  That was it, Dulcie needed air. Besides, she was entitled to one fifteen-minute break every two hours. The elevator was closing as she heard someone calling, ‘Dulcie! Dulcie!’ After a moment’s hesitation, she hit ‘open’ and Joanie slammed in.

  ‘Glad I caught you! This place is crazy.’ Joanie slumped back against the elevator wall, out of breath. In her black eyeliner, black-lined lips, and tight striped top, she looked like the same Goth girl Dulcie had befriended weeks before. Still, Dulcie waited. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you talking to the Snake.’ It sounded so much like an accusation that Dulcie felt embarrassed. ‘I mean, back in my old cubicle. And, well, they moved me . . .’

  ‘And you think I’m some kind of corporate spy?’ The conclusion was so obvious that all Dulcie could do was shrug. ‘Hey, I know they wanted to separate us, but as far as I know, they’re looking at me for this, too.’

  ‘Really?’ Dulcie wanted to believe her, but too much was at stake. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, they know that I’ve been hanging out by the business side of things – Accounting is right next to Computer Services – and I gather they were grilling Ricky, poor boy.’ Dulcie remembered the redhead. With his fresh face and freckles, he and Joanie must make quite a couple. ‘And, well, I may have said something about breaking through firewalls at some point.’

  Her dark lipstick set off a stunning smile. Dulcie found herself smiling back. Just then, the door opened and three men in suits entered, effectively shutting down the conversation. Dulcie was grateful for the break. Joanie sounded reasonable – and the spunky Goth had been her only ally in this corporate prison. But she couldn’t deny what she’d seen: Joanie and Sally Putnam talking. And if she wasn’t completely bonkers, Mr Grey had meant to show her so
mething. That conversation had to be important.

  The elevator opened on to the ground floor, and the two followed the suits out. ‘So, what was the Snake talking about?’ She had to be proactive. Plus, it was her butt on the line. ‘Was she asking about me?’

  ‘Yeah, she was. She wanted to know how often you emailed and whether you were secretive about stuff you were typing; did you use other computers? Stuff like that. I kept telling her it was ridiculous. I mean, you’re clueless around computers.’ Dulcie opened her mouth to protest, but Joanie was right. And, besides, it was a good defense. The two lined up for the guards.

  ‘Did she believe you?’ Dulcie asked, as soon as they were out of the door. And can I believe you? she added, silently. They were about ten feet from the main entrance, standing in the sun alongside the opaque glass front of the building. The day had heated up while they’d been chilling inside.

  ‘I can’t tell.’ Joanie bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. She’s an odd duck, all right. She seems to have it in for you.’

  ‘Great.’ Dulcie leaned back against the building. The heat bounced her back up, and she turned to look at the wall. Dark glass. Maybe they were watching her, even now, whoever ‘they’ were.

  ‘Creepy, huh?’ She turned and saw that Joanie was staring at the building, too. ‘So Darth Vader.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I think they’ve isolated me for a reason.’

  ‘Why don’t you just quit?’ Joanie pulled a cigarette from her bag and offered one to Dulcie, who waved it away. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry.’ She lit up. ‘But why don’t you? There are other jobs out there.’

  Dulcie sighed. Joanie was younger – and a preppie. Her family had money. Maybe to her things were as simple as that. ‘I need this job, Joanie. I owe money and I really can’t afford to miss even one pay check. If I walk out of this assignment with a cloud over me, the agency is going to want to know why. And besides,’ she felt something stir, ‘why should I quit? Why should I be hounded out like – like some kind of scapegoat? I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Because they’re evil corporate bastards?’ Joanie took a deep drag. ‘It’s a definite possibility.’

  The idea was settling in. ‘I was thinking that, in a way, I would be an obvious candidate for a suspect.’ Her paranoia from the day before now recurred in a new light. ‘You know, I’m broke, I’m new, and I’m smart enough to break into their system.’ Joanie snorted, and Dulcie held up a hand for silence. ‘I mean, theoretically, I’m a great suspect. But what if someone knows that? What if someone chose me as a fall guy? Fall girl.’

  Joanie looked at her and exhaled. With the smoke coming from her nostrils and her latest piercing – a nose ring – she looked like a petite and determined bull. ‘Or you could just be talking yourself into staying in a shit job.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Dulcie had to concede that point. Joanie might be into the Goth look, but Dulcie didn’t think she would necessarily believe in a ghost cat leaving her clues. ‘I just feel there’s something going on that I should look into, you know?’

  ‘Cool.’ Joanie ground out the cigarette and popped a Tic Tac, offering Dulcie one. ‘I’m your gal.’

  The breath mint saved Dulcie from having to respond. I hope so, she thought. I could use a friend here.

  ‘So, where do we start?’ If Joanie had noticed Dulcie’s hesitation, she didn’t let on. Dulcie rolled the mint around in her mouth and tried to think. She imagined Mr Grey stalking a spider – waiting and watching.

  ‘We need more info. Can you talk to Ricky about the investigation? I want to know what the Snake was getting at. If we can find out what exactly she was looking for, maybe we can discover who really planted the bug.’

  Joanie’s pierced eyebrow went up. ‘Wow, you’re serious.’

  ‘It’s my life, kiddo.’ The more Dulcie thought about it, the more determined she felt. ‘I’ve got to be.’

  With Mr Grey’s unblinking concentration in mind, she marched back to her cubicle. This time, she wasn’t going to block out the noise. This time, she was going to listen for anything that might give her a clue.

  ‘Priority, can I help you?’ Two hours later, she’d barely gotten through fifteen forms. And all she’d learned was that someone called Guy was having an affair with his sister-in-law’s daughter. Fifteen minutes later, a crucial detail followed – Guy and ‘that little tramp’ were characters in a soap. By then Dulcie was drained and empty, and ready for lunch.

  Joanie was nowhere to be found when Dulcie peeked over to her section. Either she was off gathering info, or flirting with Ricky. Or maybe she was filing a report. Either way, Dulcie found herself looking forward to a quiet lunch by herself. If only she didn’t have to call Lucy.

  ‘Dulcie! I’m so glad you’re OK!’ Her mother must have been waiting by the community phone. ‘I had another dream!’

  ‘Thanks, Lucy, I’m fine. What’s up?’ There would be no point in getting her mother more worked up.

  ‘It’s the books, Dulcinea!’ Her mother sounded breathless. ‘You’ve got to avoid the books!’

  Dulcie took a bite of her sandwich. Since her mother’s usual demeanor was halfway between panic and drama queen, her current level of alarm didn’t seem to be any reason to miss lunch. ‘You mean, like accounting?’ Maybe her mother had picked up something, albeit retroactively. ‘I should be careful around bookkeeping?’

  ‘No! No! It’s the library.’ Lucy was growing increasingly agitated.

  Dulcie rolled her eyes. ‘Mom, I’ve barely been able to get to the library this summer.’ How could she explain this to her mother? Lucy had no interest in the ‘dead culture of European imperialists’ anymore. ‘And my adviser is expecting me to come up with something by September. But maybe that’s what your dream was – a warning that I have to hit the books more.’ She took another bite. It was a possibility.

  ‘Don’t you dare, young lady. I know you don’t believe in my visions.’ With her mouth full, Dulcie could hardly contradict her mother. ‘I know in my heart that they’re not ordinary dreams,’ she was saying. ‘And I saw what was happening. It was horrible! You should watch out for your spirit guide – that cat. He’s looking out for you, but there’s only so much he can do, you know, trapped as he is on the spectral plane. You’ve got to avoid the library, Dulcie. There’s great harm for you in that place.’

  Dulcie swallowed and started to explain about the extraordinary security of the Harvard libraries, but her mother cut her off. ‘I’m serious. I’ve seen you, alone in there in the dark. Trapped, like a rat in a maze.’

  Ten minutes later, Dulcie had finished both the sandwich and the phone call. She’d been able to calm her mother down only by making the ridiculous promise that she wouldn’t study alone. Even her detailed explanation of how the library lighting system worked – that it was impossible to be ‘trapped in the dark’ when the lights flicked on automatically – had only brought more panicked pleas.

  ‘OK, Lucy. No studying alone after dark. Maybe I can make a career in data entry.’ Her mother had huffed and muttered about that. ‘And, yes,’ promised Dulcie, ‘I will look out for that cat.’

  Between the aggravation and the increasing humidity, Dulcie ended up returning to her workstation early. Too much air-conditioning wasn’t all bad, she decided, knowing full well what her mother would say about such environmentally unfriendly thoughts. And, besides, she did have work to do: not the pile of forms that had grown in her absence, but trying to glean information about the mystery of the Priority virus – or at least her part in it. If Joanie was right – and Dulcie had begun to believe she was – then ‘Snake’ Putnam had it in for her. Dulcie had to find out what she could in order to fight back.

  Shunning the earplugs, Dulcie made another effort to eavesdrop on the message center ladies. It didn’t take much; their volume was set on roar. Still, there wasn’t much to hear until – yes! – she dropped a form on the floor and leaned toward the center’s round desk.

  ‘She’s real trou
ble, that one.’ The fat one on the far right lowered her voice to a yell as she shouted over to a skinny, pasty-looking woman who had just come on duty. ‘And a B-I-C-H, too! If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Who’s a bitch?’ An older operator, seated on the opposite side of the pale woman, shouted over.

  ‘Esperanza. You know, on One Night to Live?’

  Great, they were talking about soaps again. A thought struck her: had they simply been talking about one of their dramas before, when Dulcie had heard about an impending arrest?

  ‘Oh, I love her.’ The pale, skinny woman seemed to have woken up. ‘She’s wicked!’

  No, Dulcie decided. Earlier they had mentioned that somebody would ‘make trouble for us’. Even these women couldn’t take their TV programs that seriously.

  ‘And she’s carrying his twin brother’s bastard, too!’ Dulcie sat back and reconsidered the earplugs. Would she learn anything here? How could adult women be captivated by anything so inane? In frustration, she picked up the pile of finished forms and began banging them on the edge of her desk, forcing them into a nice, neat pile. Just like . . . no, could it be? Lucy had never been the kind of mother who cared about neatness. Dulcie had often considered herself lucky to be fed. But her late grandmother – Sarah – had been a stickler for order and all things proper. She was also, Dulcie recalled, carefully replacing the pile on her desk, a terrible snob. Dulcie knew that some of her own sense of propriety was a direct reaction to her childhood with Lucy. Keeping up to date on bills, for example, meant that the phone stayed connected. But maybe in some way, she resembled her late grandmother. ‘Channeling’ was the word Lucy would have used, although Dulcie saw it more as the swing of a pendulum.

  Was she also a snob? Being at Harvard certainly made that easy. Even in a minor discipline, she could still hold her academic head over the vast majority of her peers. Is that who she wanted to be? The answer came with a shudder, and years of her mother’s training kicked in. Don’t subscribe to the dominant paradigm; not without examining the facts for yourself. Think globally, but act locally.