Grey Dawn

by Clea Simon

  Maybe it was the light. Somehow, the moon managed to shine around the sides of the bedroom shade. Maybe it was Esmé. The little tuxedo had gotten up again at dawn, pawing at the window at the birdsong outside. More likely it was the cold pizza Dulcie had finished off before returning to bed. Whatever the cause, Dulcie’s sleep had been fitful, and she’d woken early, still tired and alone.

  It wasn’t Chris’s fault. She checked the clock; he’d be in the Science Center for another half hour. Still, after that last conversation, she had no desire to wait up for him. Instead, she fed Esmé, who seemed particularly affectionate this morning, and got dressed.

  ‘Play!’As Dulcie reached for her sneakers, Esmé pounced, grabbing the loose end of the lace. ‘Hunt!’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to do, kitty.’ Dulcie removed the lace, and then extricated her hand from the cat’s playful grasp. ‘Maybe that’s what you’re trying to tell me?’

  ‘Play with me!’ The cat pounced again, this time using her claws.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Dulcie drew back. ‘This is not how you get someone to play with you.’ Dulcie looked at her pet, the off-center white star on her nose making her look a little lopsided and confused. ‘Even though you are adorable.’

  She reached for her cat to give her one more quick pet, and Esmé reared up, wrapping her front paws around Dulcie’s wrist and nipping at her hand. ‘No, Esmé! No!’ Dulcie pulled away, shaking her head. ‘Chris has got to stop rough-housing with you,’ she said, as she grabbed her sweater and headed for the door.

  ‘But it’s not Chris I worry about.’The little cat’s voice was lost to Dulcie as she clambered down the steps. ‘It’s you.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Chris was wrong, and Dulcie knew it. Something very odd was going on, and Thorpe was at the heart of it. Still, Chris had a point that she should leave things to the police. Dulcie had already told all she knew to Detective Rogovoy. At least, all she could tell the big policeman without breaking a confidence or getting herself locked up in a psych ward. Better she should visit the University Health Services of her own volition, she thought as she walked into the Square. She had almost an hour before her first section, anyway. And while it was arguably too early to call the hotel to see if Professor Showalter had returned to her own room last night, it was not too early to pay a visit to the visiting scholar if she had been admitted. Besides, Dulcie was itching to know what the professor had been going to tell her. Surely, after a night’s rest, the professor’s memory would have returned.

  Pushing open the big glass doors of the student infirmary, Dulcie was thinking of the visiting scholar. Perhaps she’d been too suspicious; this had been an odd week. If the professor really did have information – or even a lead on a juicy document – she’d take back everything she had said. In truth, it would be great to work with a senior scholar who actually valued the same books she did.

  Distracted by such a tantalizing idea, Dulcie was taken up short to hear her name. She was even more surprised to turn and see Nancy, the departmental secretary, standing by the front desk.

  ‘Nancy! Are you okay?’ Dulcie rushed over. ‘Were you hurt? I knew we shouldn’t have left you. Even the cab stand isn’t …’

  ‘No, no, dear.’ The stout woman took Dulcie’s outstretched hands in her own. ‘I’m fine. Honest. Though I’m glad to see you here.’

  ‘Really?’ Dulcie couldn’t remember what she and her colleagues had talked about in front of Nancy. Someone must have said something about Professor Showalter’s interest. ‘Because, last night, the professor couldn’t remember …’

  Nancy was shaking her head. ‘Oh, dear. You haven’t heard.’

  Dulcie gasped. Had the head injury been more severe than they had realized? ‘She’s not …’

  Nancy smiled. ‘No, Dulcie. She’s fine. I believe they only kept her overnight for observation.’

  Dulcie looked up, quizzical. ‘And you’re escorting her back to the hotel?’

  ‘I’m here for Mr Thorpe, Dulcie.’ Her voice was warm and concerned. ‘This is why we couldn’t locate him last night. I assumed you knew.’

  ‘No, I …’ Dulcie was calculating. If Thorpe had been here last night, he couldn’t have been the attacker. If he had also been victimized, that threw all her theories out. Unless Trista had been wrong, and Lukos had doubled back, his eye on the competition …

  ‘Ms Shelby?’ A man in a white coat, surely too young to be a doctor, was standing behind the receptionist. ‘We can take you in now.’

  ‘Dulcie?’ Nancy turned toward her, clearly inviting her along. ‘Will you join me? I’m sure he would appreciate the company.’

  ‘Sure.’ Was Thorpe beaten? Bloody? Dulcie braced herself for the worst.

  The aide – he couldn’t be a doctor – ushered them off into a consulting room. ‘Mr Thorpe has had a good night’s sleep,’ he was saying. ‘He says he feels much better today. I know he appreciates you coming in, and he gave his permission for this visit. Please keep in mind, however, that the circumstances surrounding his admission are sensitive, and that he may not be ready to discuss them yet.’

  ‘What happened?’ As he led them out of the room, Dulcie mouthed her question to Nancy.

  ‘Mr Thorpe … He, well, he has been under enormous stress.’ Nancy whispered back. ‘All I know for sure is that he came here. He told the doctor on call that he was afraid. Afraid of what he’d do, and—’

  ‘Mr Thorpe is ready to receive you now.’ An older white coat had stepped into the hall beside them, pushing some kind of large metal cart. Perhaps he was the aide? But as Dulcie’s eye followed the older man, the younger ushered them inside the room. There, looking a little less sweaty and a lot less frenzied than the last time she had seen him, lay Martin Thorpe, her adviser and the acting head of the department, dolled up in a hospital johnny with a bowl of oatmeal before him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Thorpe.’ Nancy slid right in to nursing mode. Dulcie almost expected her to start spooning up Thorpe’s cereal for him. ‘I hope you’re feeling better this morning.’

  ‘I am. Thank you, Nancy.’ His voice sounded less strained, Dulcie noted, though it did rise in surprise as he greeted you. ‘And good morning, Ms Schwartz. I didn’t know you had come along with Nancy.’

  ‘Well, actually, I didn’t.’ Dulcie was thinking fast. Thorpe had not been attacked; he’d checked himself in. If he’d come in before moonrise, before Professor Showalter had been attacked, then it really might just have been stress. If, however, he’d come in later … She had to chance it. ‘Nancy told me you were here and, of course, I wanted to visit.’ She swallowed and took the leap. ‘But I actually came by to visit Professor Showalter. You must have heard: she was attacked last night.’

  ‘What? No.’ The spoon clattered down on the tray, and Nancy turned toward Dulcie.

  ‘I don’t think we have to upset Mr Thorpe with all of that right now, Dulcie,’ she was saying. ‘After all, Professor Showalter will be perfectly all right—’

  ‘Where did this happen?’ Thorpe was gripping the bed rails. ‘And … when?’

  ‘Before she could give her lecture.’ Dulcie ignored Nancy, focusing instead on her adviser. ‘Not long after Trista, Lloyd, Raleigh, and I saw you out on DeWolfe Street.’

  Thorpe lay there, his new-found color gone, his mouth slightly open. ‘You saw me?’

  ‘Right as the moon was rising.’ Dulcie’s voice was soft. Suddenly, she didn’t want her suspicions to be true. It was too horrible. ‘You must have been headed here, then. About, oh, six thirty?’

  ‘What?’ Thorpe was staring into space. ‘No, not then. I, well, I wandered for a while, I’m afraid. I gather I was really not myself. I only came here when I realized that I wouldn’t – that I couldn’t sleep. It must have been late. Maybe near dawn.’

  ‘Dulcie.’ Nancy’s voice had progressed from kindly to stern. ‘That is enough now. Mr Thorpe has had an understandably trying experience. We are here to visit and to comfort
him, and if you cannot let him recuperate, then you should leave.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Thorpe was reaching for something – a call button, Dulcie could now see. ‘Maybe you should both go. I’m really not myself yet.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Thorpe.’ Nancy was up and nearly dragging Dulcie out of her seat. ‘Please, don’t worry about anything. You just get some rest now.’

  Outside, she turned surprisingly fierce eyes on Dulcie. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘You don’t think it odd: Thorpe “isn’t himself” and one of the claimants for his position is brutally attacked?’ Dulcie was whispering, but such was her excitement that two orderlies in blue scrubs looked over. ‘We saw him, Nancy. He was heading toward the hotel. Toward the Common.’

  ‘Dulcie, I never …’ Nancy was shaking her head, a look of profound sadness on her face. ‘I know that Mr Thorpe can be difficult to deal with. Lord knows, I’ve been a little discomfited by his behavior recently. But to accuse him of … of … I don’t even know what.’

  ‘It’s not his fault, Nancy.’ Dulcie leaned in. ‘Not if he can’t help himself.’

  Nancy only kept on shaking her head. ‘Your books, Dulcie. I fear you’ve taken them too much to heart. This is simply the case of an ordinary man. An extraordinary man in some ways, perhaps, but an ordinary man when it comes to fear and stress. Don’t you know, he was on the verge of killing himself last night? And here you are, accusing him of I don’t know what.’

  ‘Killing himself?’ She hadn’t gotten that from what her adviser had said. ‘He didn’t say that.’ She was sure of it. ‘He said he was afraid of what he might do.And, Nancy? I’m afraid that maybe he did it.’

  THIRTY

  Nancy wouldn’t talk about it any more. Nor did she want Dulcie’s help with sorting out the various appointments and commitments Thorpe’s absence had thrown into disarray.

  ‘I wonder if you need a break, too, Dulcie,’ she had said, with unaccustomed sternness, after Dulcie’s umpteenth attempt to get her to understand. ‘You are confusing yourself, with your books and your stories. We’re not like that, dear. We live in a much simpler world.’

  They’d been out on the plaza by then, and the workday bustle around them almost convinced Dulcie that Nancy was right. At any rate, she knew she didn’t want to make an enemy of her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dulcie said finally, despite her conviction to the contrary. ‘Sorry for upsetting you, anyway. May I treat you to a muffin?’ The coffee shop on the plaza was known for its muffins and scones.

  ‘No. No, thank you, dear.’ Nancy relaxed, looking tired, rather than defensive, but she mustered a smile. ‘Why don’t you treat yourself, though? Take some time for yourself, dear. Here in the sun, outside of the library.’

  Dulcie nodded and tried to return the smile as she watched Nancy walk off. Nancy had always been reliable. Comforting and solid. Had she just alienated the one warm member of the departmental staff? Or was the secretary just too grounded to comprehend a supernatural threat? Whatever the older woman believed, Dulcie had to find out the truth.

  She turned to go back in. No, she told herself. It wouldn’t do to question Martin Thorpe further, even assuming she was allowed in to see him. However, if she were lucky, Renée Showalter would be well enough to receive visitors – and maybe her memory would have returned.

  Fearing repercussions from her brief visit with Thorpe, Dulcie kept her head low as she re-entered the infirmary.

  ‘Renée Showalter, please?’ She was speaking softly, her eyes darting.

  ‘Excuse me?’ The receptionist narrowed her eyes. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Dulcie Schwartz.’ Dulcie tried to speak up, but she heard the hesitation in her voice. ‘I’m a grad student, and Professor Showalter and I were speaking last night, before, well, you know …’

  The receptionist, her mouth set in a grim line, considered the young woman before her. Dulcie did her best to look innocuous, even going so far as to bat her eyes.

  ‘Do you need a tissue?’ The receptionist pulled several Kleenex from a box. It wasn’t what Dulcie had intended, but she accepted them as a peace offering, and thirty seconds later, the receptionist looked back up.

  ‘She’s in room three-oh-four. Take the elevator up to three.’ She checked her monitor again. ‘She’s being discharged this morning, so hurry if you don’t want to miss her.’

  With a quick thanks, Dulcie trotted over to the elevator. This was great news. Surely, the professor must now remember whatever it was she had meant to tell Dulcie. They did have an appointment to meet, but since she was here anyway, Dulcie saw no reason to wait. Besides, Showalter might appreciate her dropping by.

  The door to room 304 was open when Dulcie arrived, but the white privacy curtain was pulled shut. Behind it, Dulcie could hear several voices. A doctor, probably, with some last-minute care instructions, or maybe an orderly helping her dress. Dulcie hung back, thinking she’d wait for quiet before announcing herself.

  ‘There you go, Professor.’ A cheery woman’s voice. ‘I hope that doesn’t hurt too much.’ She was right: someone was helping the scholar dress.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dulcie recognized the professor’s voice. ‘I hope you catch him – or her.’

  ‘Do you remember any more details?’ Not an aide, then. A cop. ‘You would be doing a service for the community.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A pause. ‘I wish I could be sure.’ Dulcie leaned in. If the professor mentioned seeing anyone who sounded even remotely like Thorpe, she’d have her proof.

  ‘You said that you had been talking to someone who had behaved strangely?’ The cop was pushing.

  ‘Yes.’ Showalter drew the word out. ‘But I don’t want to cast aspersions.’ There was a rustle of clothing, before she resumed. ‘It was odd, though. I had thought that it would be generous to share what I had found. That what I had uncovered was important and would be appreciated. I don’t understand what went wrong. I mean, no, I can’t say with any certainty, Officer. I’m sorry. But I do know that poor girl did seem somewhat unhinged.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Dulcie couldn’t believe it. But even as she felt frozen to the spot, she realized she couldn’t stay. Flattening herself back against the wall, she eyed the elevators. If the professor and the cop stepped out now, she was cooked. She had come to talk to Showalter when she already had an appointment in a little over an hour; it certainly could seem like she was stalking her.

  But – wait – any building of this height would have an emergency exit. Did she dare open those doors? Try for the stairs? No, there was too great a chance that she’d set off an alarm. Instead, in a mad dash that she hoped was open to a more conventional interpretation, she bolted into the ladies’ room, where she lingered for a good twenty minutes before daring to venture out.

  By then, the coast was clear. She was also late for her section. Though by now the early epistolary novel was the furthest thing from her mind.

  Clearly, her students felt the same way. ‘I don’t know, Ms Schwartz.’ Forty minutes in, Roz, slumped in her seat, was whining. ‘It just seems to go on and on.’

  Dulcie nodded in sympathy before realizing that she should counter the sophomore’s impression with some context.

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ She might as well admit that much. ‘But think of what the author is trying to do. Before texting and emails, before the telephone, you caught people up by writing letters. Everything important, anything you needed to tell someone, you would write. Richardson is trying to duplicate the rhythm of those letters. Remember, these women haven’t spoken in ages, so everything is fair game. Besides, they had no electronic devices.’ Dulcie nodded toward Julie, in the corner, who was clearly texting under the edge of the table. ‘And no TV, so they had more time on their hands for things like reading and writing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the formatting.’ Julie shoved her phone in her bag. ‘It’s so hard to understand who’s speaking to who.’

  ‘Who
m,’ corrected Dulcie. Julie was trying to pretend she’d been reading, that much was obvious. However, that didn’t mean Dulcie couldn’t use the moment. ‘What you’re noticing is the voice. While the language is more formal than what we’d use today, it is a casual, intimate voice. The author is trying to re-create a real chain of letters back and forth between friends. He wants you to see that each writer knows the other, and so they don’t need to explain too much.

  ‘But they don’t tell you who’s talking – writing – half the time.’ Julie wasn’t giving up. ‘It’s confusing.’

  And even as Dulcie answered her – ‘this kind of reading does require a little more concentration than a text message’ – it hit her. Dulcie didn’t know for sure whom Professor Showalter had been talking about. Granted, it sounded like the professor was talking about her, but maybe she had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  The question then was: whom had she been complaining about? Showalter had been surrounded by students at the bar, and both Lloyd and Trista had been with her. Trista. Dulcie stopped, unwilling to let the thought form. Trista had been at the hotel, waiting for Showalter to arrive. She and Chris had discussed that because Chris had doubted the blonde postgrad as a source of information, and Dulcie had defended her. But why had Trista been so eager?