Grey Howl

by Clea Simon

  ‘Sorry,’ Mina whispered. She might not know about that phone call from Barnes, but she was well aware of the tensions between Thorpe and Showalter.

  ‘I gather he’s got some personal reason, and he thinks he’s a big enough deal …’ Thorpe broke off, slightly unbalanced by his own dramatic gestures. ‘Well, look who’s over there.’ He righted himself and was peering over Dulcie’s shoulder. ‘If it isn’t the Canadian interloper.’

  Dulcie spun around. Sure enough, Showalter was behind her, arms crossed as she made her way back toward the French doors. Dulcie bit her lip. As much as she would love to grab the red-haired academic, she couldn’t abandon Thorpe, not in this condition.

  Mina saw her frustration. ‘I’ll go after her,’ she said softly. ‘Pleasure to see you again, Mr Thorpe.’ She headed back into the dining hall, on the heels of the visiting scholar.

  ‘Chasing a dream, that one.’ Thorpe was slurring his words, and Dulcie was looking around for relief. Surely she could hail one of her colleagues to take a turn with their interim chair.

  ‘Mr Thorpe, look! There’s Lloyd!’ She waved. Her office mate waved back from inside the entrance hall and then turned away, back to what seemed to be a discussion with several postgrads.

  ‘She’s not going to get what she wants, you know.’

  Dulcie turned back to Thorpe. This was getting annoying. ‘Who, Mina? She’s only an undergrad, and she’s already getting recognition. I was lucky to have her input on my paper.’

  ‘Not her.’ Thorpe shook his head, then seemed to think better of it. ‘The other one. Redheads!’

  That could have referred to Dulcie herself, but she knew he meant Showalter. Well, the Canadian professor was a front runner for the job he had effectively held for more than a year now. He had reason to be bitter.

  ‘And there’s Professor Barnes.’ Dulcie smiled and waved, hoping the silver-haired academic would know enough not to say anything too obvious in front of Thorpe. He nodded back, his hands full with discarded dishes.

  ‘He doesn’t matter,’ Thorpe shrugged, an eloquent if overdone gesture. ‘He’s not going to get it.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Dulcie had never heard her adviser speak so openly about the chairmanship.

  ‘She doesn’t have it.’ Thorpe delivered this apparent non sequitur with a dismissive snort, as he raised his now-empty glass. ‘I need a refill.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Dulcie did not want to be in the position of monitoring Thorpe’s drinking. Then again, she didn’t want to think what might happen if he imbibed more. As much to distract him as for her own curiosity, she asked the question that popped into her mind. ‘So, you think Professor Showalter and Professor Barnes are having some kind of a disagreement, and that she wants him to go after her?’ Voiced out loud, it sounded ridiculous. ‘I’m sorry,’ she added. ‘That was silly of me.’

  ‘Not silly at all.’ Thorpe leaned forward and Dulcie got a strong whiff of rum. He must have started with the cider. ‘She’s got something he wants, but not …’

  It was the leaning that did it. Thorpe was not the most physically adept man at the best of times. Three sheets to the wind, he was as unstable as a rotten pine. With a whoop, he fell forward, causing Dulcie to stagger backwards under his weight.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ He overcorrected and started to tilt back.

  ‘Mr Thorpe!’ Dulcie grabbed for him. The terrace was stone, and in this condition he could crack his head open.

  ‘Got him!’ A burly post doc jumped out of the doorway, righting the tipsy scholar with an arm around his waist. ‘Shall we go inside and find a seat?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Thorpe, who seemed amused by the small crowd that had gathered, silhouetted in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll take him from here.’ Dulcie turned to see Lloyd and Raleigh emerging from the building. They had seen her predicament.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed the words as Lloyd stepped by her to guide the weaving Thorpe through the smirking partygoers and back inside the busy entrance hall. The post doc closed the doors behind them, the moonlight making the sheer drapes shimmer as they fell into place.

  Inside the reception room the crowd had grown, and Dulcie let Lloyd move ahead, clearing a path. Thorpe seemed to be heading toward the stairs, and Lloyd let him. It was a smart move, Dulcie realized. There were chairs over by the stairwell, and it would be quieter once they had passed to the other side of the bar.

  Hanging back, Dulcie watched them go. Chris was not going to believe this. Thinking of her boyfriend, she decided to check in. ‘Chris? It’s me.’ His voicemail had picked up. ‘You wouldn’t believe what Thorpe did.’ She paused. It was foolish to hope he’d pick up. He was probably fast asleep, as she had wanted him to be. ‘I hope you’re feeling better, sweetie. I won’t be out too late.’ She would have felt better if he had answered, but knowing that he was home would have to be good enough.

  ‘Chris?’ Raleigh waited till she had pocketed her phone.

  ‘Sick.’ Dulcie nodded. ‘Not self-induced.’

  ‘Poor guy.’ Raleigh’s eyes were also following the path Lloyd and Thorpe had taken. ‘The pressure must be unbearable. Is he going to be okay?’ This was to Lloyd, who had emerged from the scrum, alone.

  Lloyd shrugged. ‘He’s going to have a bad head tomorrow. That’s for sure.’ Dulcie was about to question him, when he continued. ‘He said he was going to go upstairs to the Men’s room. I did not think I had to follow.’ He paused. ‘Unless you think I should?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Dulcie wasn’t, but there were limits to their loyalty. ‘Did you happen to see either Renée Showalter or Paul Barnes?’

  ‘Yeah, both of them.’ Lloyd had his arm around Raleigh and was guiding her back to the bar. Dulcie, who had begun to follow, stopped.

  ‘Lloyd?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Her friend turned. ‘You’d think after that I wouldn’t want a drink, but …’ He shrugged. ‘Showalter was on the stairs when I was trying to get Thorpe to take a seat. I think she’d been talking with Barnes, ’cause I saw him – up the first flight. He was saying something, though the music was so loud I don’t know that she heard. Or that she wanted to.’

  Dulcie could feel her pulse speed up. ‘Why? What did he say?’

  Lloyd shook his head. ‘I’m not positive. It was very loud, and they were on the landing. But she had a face like thunder, and he sounded, well, not angry. Maybe a little desperate.

  ‘He wasn’t yelling, but he kept repeating himself. “You’re wrong, you know. It’s not like that. I wouldn’t do that to her.”’

  ‘Huh.’ Dulcie thought that one over as Lloyd turned again for the bar. Raleigh stopped him, taking his hand, and turned him back toward Dulcie.

  ‘Dulcie, what’s going on? What does this mean?’

  Dulcie shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’ She paused, wondering how much she could – or should – tell her friends. Besides, Mina had just appeared, and if Dulcie was going to leave their project to go work with Barnes, she should tell the undergrad first.

  ‘Mina, did you find Professor Showalter?’ Dulcie kept her voice low. ‘Lloyd said she was upstairs. I really need to talk to her – and to you.’

  ‘This party, I don’t know, Dulcie. Maybe there is something to the whole full moon thing.’ Mina was speaking softly too.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I went after her. I thought, you know, maybe she was simply going to the Ladies. And besides, I knew you wanted me to keep my eyes open for Marco Tesla, too.’ Mina stopped and looked around. ‘I mean, I saw her go up to the ballroom, so I figured I’d follow. I thought I’d lost her, but she was just standing by those big windows, pacing. Then Professor Barnes came by and it was clear he’d been looking for her. And they started whispering to each other.’

  Dulcie nodded in confirmation. ‘That’s what Lloyd said. I gather they were – ah – having a discussion.’

  ‘Yeah, I think they were talking
about Stella Roebuck. I couldn’t get too close without being obvious.’ She held up her cane. ‘But I swear I heard them talking about a paper – Showalter said “her paper”.’

  This was interesting. ‘I should tell you, Mina, I’ve got to talk to both of them, but—’

  And there’s – oh, never mind.’ Mina had grabbed her arm, pointing. Dulcie turned. She immediately saw why: Stella Roebuck was standing in the doorway, about to make an entrance. In her man-tailored frock coat and pants, she looked a lot like Marco Tesla had that afternoon. It must have been intentional, Dulcie thought, and mistakes like Mina’s only one of the desired effects. Once again, Dulcie was struck by the petite academic’s sense of drama.

  Frozen in place, her face a bloodless white under those peaks of blue-black hair, Stella Roebuck looked like a statue. With Marco Tesla beside her, she’d have been even more striking. If they had been civilians, their nearly identical look would have been some kind of statement about them as a couple. Maybe, Dulcie pondered, it was a uniform: what the well-dressed deconstructivist was wearing. No, she dismissed the thought. Considering who they were and what they were both known for, it couldn’t be that simple. It had to be a statement about gender roles and identification in a postmodern context.

  ‘Do you think,’ Dulcie said, turning toward Mina, ‘that she’s riffing on fashion as a—’

  Again, she was cut off. This time by Roebuck, as the frozen figure opened her mouth and let loose a blood-curdling shriek, before collapsing to her knees.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The funny thing was, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. At least, nothing that Stella Roebuck wasn’t doing to herself.

  Dulcie and Mina were the first ones over. Kneeling there, eyes staring straight ahead, Stella was still screaming, like some kind of nightmare automaton, pausing only to draw in another breath. But by the time they reached her, she had also started clawing at her face, drawing the black-lacquered nails of both hands down her pale cheeks again and again, as if to release even more of the piercing sound within.

  Dulcie had been flustered for a moment. This was, after all, a visiting scholar. A dignitary, of sorts. And a rather formidable woman in her own right. But after a split second delay she reached up, taking the arched and rigid hands in her own and drawing them down. The woman didn’t resist, but neither did she respond, except to take another breath and start screaming again.

  ‘Ms Roebuck, please!’ Dulcie was right in the visiting scholar’s face where she could see the angry red welts left by those dark nails. Stella seemed not to see her and tried to lift her hands, still held in a raking pose. ‘No, Ms Roebuck. No!’ Dulcie held tight, determined to stop the self-destructive scratching, even if the screaming continued.

  ‘Ms Roebuck!’ Mina had grabbed her shoulder and was shaking her. ‘What happened? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’

  For a split second, Dulcie thought she saw a response. Those dark eyes shifted ever so slightly, though whether in response to Mina or to something else, she couldn’t say. Because in that split second, she heard another voice. The student bartender, and soon after the confused noise of a dozen or more partygoers, all rushing down the stairs.

  ‘Oh my God!’ ‘What?’ The noise was cut by another scream, and for a moment Dulcie wondered if she was witnessing a case of contagious hysteria. After all, the new person screaming had been downing some of that spiked cider only seconds before.

  ‘Oh, hell.’ It was Mina. She’d let go of Stella Roebuck’s arm and taken Dulcie’s. She pulled at it, till Dulcie turned. She was pointing. There were about fifteen people behind Stella now, piled into the space between the screaming academic and the French doors. It was the press of them, she thought at first, that opened the doors. Too many people in too small a space, the air thick with noise and booze.

  But as the cold air rushed in and some of the revelers stepped out, the crowd thinned just enough for Dulcie to see past Stella Roebuck and out into the courtyard. Five people, maybe six, had stepped into the stone patio without their coats and stood there frozen. But not, apparently, by the cold.

  They were staring, and from inside, Dulcie followed their eyes to see, lying sideways on the frosted stone, a shoe. A man’s shoe, lace-up, its dark leather glinting with the moonlight. Even as Mina tried to hold her, Dulcie left Stella and walked toward the shoe. Just then one of the partygoers turned away to vomit noisily against the wall. And Dulcie saw why: the shoe was attached to a leg that belonged to Marco Tesla. The visiting academic was lying on his back on the cold flagstone. His face was as pale as ever, and his dark eyes seemed to be staring straight at Dulcie. But after her initial intake of breath, Dulcie realized that the foppish scholar was not, in fact, seeing her. Or anyone else for that matter. Because the rakishly coiffed head was bent at an angle not found in nature. Something – or someone – had broken Marco Tesla’s neck.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘I didn’t have anything to do with this,’ Dulcie said, resisting the temptation to add ‘this time’. She didn’t need to. Detective Rogovoy hadn’t even asked her if she did. The campus detective was simply taking her statement, much as he and his colleagues were taking down the basic information of everyone there: partygoers, waiters, that poor student bartender. He’d been the one to lose his dinner at the sight of Marco Tesla, and Dulcie saw him now, sitting with his head between his legs. Someone was trying to get him to take a paper cup of water, but he wasn’t having any of it.

  Dulcie knew how he felt. ‘You know I didn’t,’ she said, turning back to the big detective. Rogovoy was a large man, and ugly, with a nose like a growth on the potato of his face. He wasn’t unkind, however, and he only nodded as Dulcie protested.

  ‘This isn’t like …’ Dulcie stopped herself, the adrenalin that had driven her finally draining off. She and the detective had become acquainted in the past, when various misadventures had thrown her into the hot seat. Surely he could understand that as fond as she had actually grown of the ogre-like man, she didn’t want to go through all the rigmarole of a police investigation again. ‘Well,’ she said, suddenly deflated. ‘It isn’t.’

  Rogovoy looked equally exhausted, his face a topographic map of grief. ‘Why don’t we start at the beginning, Ms Schwartz?’ His voice, rumbly deep, was kind. ‘Let’s just start with how you know this young man.’

  ‘He wasn’t …’ She paused. It was funny, in a way. Dulcie didn’t think of him as a young man. A scholar. A guest of the university. One of the rising luminaries of her field. But the detective was right: Marco Tesla was a young man. A handsome young man. And he was, she knew, dead. Mina had dragged her back, away from the scene on the steps, before the ambulance had arrived. It didn’t matter. One look at Tesla, at the unnatural angle of his head, and she had known. Everyone had. There was no emergency treatment that could put that right. She turned toward the cop. ‘What happened?’

  Rogovoy looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I mean, I know he’s dead.’ She felt foolish under that gaze. ‘I mean, he is, right?’

  ‘Let’s go back to my question, first, shall we?’ For a big man, Rogovoy’s voice was soft.

  ‘But why? You know who he is, right?’ She looked up at him. His lack of response seemed to confirm her supposition. ‘And it was an accident, right?’

  Nothing. Dulcie began running through the facts out loud. ‘That balcony. Everyone talks about how dangerous it is. The railing is really low, and people sit on it all the time. I mean, it’s not that high, but the patio below is stone, so if you fell …’ She stopped, the memory of the broken man suddenly filling her vision. ‘Oh, God.’

  Rogovoy was around the desk in a minute. ‘Ms Schwartz, are you all right? Do you feel faint?’ For a big man, he was fast. And gentle. She felt his hand on her back pushing her forward, so that her head was down and the wave of dizziness passed.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, but held the position. ‘I was just remembering.’

  ‘Why don’t y
ou tell me what you remember?’ His voice was still soft, but Dulcie paused.

  ‘You asked me that already.’ She could think again, and she didn’t like what her brain was putting together. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

  Silence. She looked up at Rogovoy. The big detective looked back, his eyes sad.

  ‘It wasn’t?’ She swallowed. ‘No, of course not. That’s why you’re asking.’

  ‘Whatever we think we know, Ms Schwartz, we have to confirm. Isn’t that the scientific way?’ He sat back, the ghost of a smile edging into his cheeks. ‘Now, if we can get back to my questions …’

  She nodded. It was going to take a while to absorb this. Having something else to think about helped. ‘What did you want to know again?’

  ‘What can you tell me about Marco Tesla?’ It was an open question, but Dulcie was grateful for it.

  ‘He was here for ELLA.’ Dulcie paused, but Rogovoy didn’t ask for details. Of course not, she realized. His department was probably aware of such a momentous happening. ‘Oh, Mr Thorpe is going to have a heart attack.’

  ‘Is he related to this Ella somehow?’ So much for the cop’s omniscience.

  ‘It’s a conference,’ Dulcie explained, as quickly as she could. Now that she was away from the scene, the energy seemed to be sifting out of her like, well, like sifting sand. ‘We have scholars from all over the country. Canada, too.’ She thought of Renée Showalter. At least she had left before this had happened. ‘He – Marco Tesla – was in from California. He’s a big deal.’ It sounded lame, even to her. ‘He was, I mean.’

  Rogovoy nodded. ‘And you saw him at this party?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m helping with the conference. I actually met him earlier today, but … just in passing.’ She flashed back to the scene in the Science Center. Tesla had been there for Stella, but Paul Barnes had been there, too. It was clear the pixie-like brunette preferred the younger man, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been tension.