Grey Howl

by Clea Simon

  Marco Tesla’s body, his skin so pale under that hideous moon.

  ‘I’m afraid …’ She paused, unsure even how to phrase what was in her mind. ‘I’m afraid something has happened – is happening to – Chris,’ she said finally. ‘I’m afraid he’s changing. I’m afraid he’s—’

  ‘Dulcie, you’re up.’ She opened her eyes and realized her arms were empty. She was standing in the dark kitchen, her cup of cocoa cooling on the counter. And her boyfriend was standing before her, pale in the fading moonlight.

  ‘What is it, Dulcie?’ He came toward her, a look of alarm on his face.

  She blinked and shook her head. The nightmare, it had gotten to her. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, smiling up at her boyfriend. ‘I had one of those dreams.’ He knew her well enough to understand: Gothic novels were spooky enough often to haunt her sleep. And if sometimes they had other, deeper messages for Dulcie, well, that was something she hadn’t been entirely candid with Chris about. For now, she’d let it be a nightmare.

  ‘It’s okay, though,’ she tied up her brief summary of the fearful vision. ‘Mr Grey was comforting me.’

  ‘In the dream?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘That’s nice.’ He gave her a half-hearted hug and turned the stove back on. ‘I guess it makes sense though. The night you’ve had. Is there any more of that hot chocolate?’ He started rummaging in the cabinet, and she pushed the box toward him.

  This was crazy, she told herself. This was Chris, her boyfriend, waking up in the middle of the night to take care of her.

  ‘I guess,’ she said. What he was saying made sense. The only thing that didn’t was her gut. Even as he had hugged her, she had felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, as if … ‘Is Esmé still in the bed?’

  ‘No.’ He fixed his mug. ‘She bolted. I guess my waking scared her.’

  ‘Nothing scares Esmé.’ She meant it as a joke, but her own words gave her pause. ‘Chris?’

  ‘What?’ He turned toward her, but something about the light – the shadows from the trees outside – obscured his face.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, suddenly chilled. ‘That nightmare shook me. I’m going to try to get back to sleep.’

  ‘Good idea.’ He sipped his cocoa. ‘I’ll be in soon.’

  But although Dulcie lay awake and wide-eyed for hours, watching the shadows creep across the ceiling as the moon faded away, she did not hear him come back to bed.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The morning light woke her. That and the sound of Chris rumbling in the kitchen. It was such a familiar clatter – the coffee maker, cereal bowls – that for a moment Dulcie was utterly content. Then she remembered the nightmare, and her own strange apprehensions about the man who even now was probably scooping out French roast. Not to mention the mess of a conference, and the man who had died at its launch party.

  ‘Morning, sweetie.’ The man who looked up from the silverware drawer when she came in was undeniably Chris. ‘I know you have to get an early start today, but I wanted to let you sleep as late as possible.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She accepted a mug with gratitude. Chris made the coffee stronger than she did. Today she needed it. ‘I should go see Thorpe first thing.’

  ‘He’ll be a ray of sunshine.’ He handed her the milk. ‘And Dulcie?’

  She doctored her coffee, waiting for what she knew was coming.

  ‘About that other professor – Barnes?’

  Taking a deep breath, she dove in. ‘Chris, I’m not committed to anything. We haven’t even spoken. He simply left me a message.’ She knew this sounded like a concession, and she didn’t want to give him false hope. ‘But I have to follow up on this. I have to.’

  He looked at her in wordless misery.

  ‘Chris, this is just too good a chance to miss.’ She felt awful. But what could she do? ‘I’ll be careful, sweetie. I’ll talk to Professor Showalter before I do anything.’

  ‘And that detective?’ Chris had met Rogovoy and, Dulcie suspected, talked to him about Dulcie’s tendency to get involved in things.

  ‘I’ll tell him, Chris. I promise.’ She paused, trying to weigh her feelings. ‘I just can’t see him as, well, as a killer. And besides, Chris, we don’t know what happened yet. It could have been an accident. Everyone was drinking.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He reached for the pot and refilled his cup. ‘I’m sorry for making such a fuss. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘You can refill me.’ She held her mug out. The coffee was good, and Dulcie could feel her brain waking up. ‘Beyond that, does it make any sense to take a second pass at that computer?’ Before Chris could argue the negative, she went on. ‘I mean, at least to buy us some time?’

  ‘Got it.’ He nodded. ‘I could definitely take another look at it. I believe Kelly still has it down at tech services. Do you want me to talk to that professor?’

  Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t ask that of you. I’ll tell Thorpe that you’re working on it – and he’ll let Stella Roebuck know. Maybe she won’t care, but it couldn’t hurt.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Her boyfriend stared down into his mug. ‘Maybe that’s what Mr Grey was talking about.’

  His voice was soft, but Dulcie sat up. ‘Mr Grey?’

  Her boyfriend shrugged. ‘I think so. I mean, maybe it was a dream.’ She waited, curiosity battling with a twinge of jealousy.

  ‘It probably wasn’t even him, Dulcie.’ He must have seen the latter emotion on her face. ‘Probably my own sense of competence – or lack thereof.’ He tried to smile. ‘It’s just that I woke up thinking that I had to keep looking. That there was something there, or a trace of something – something about authorship.’

  ‘Authorship?’ That sounded so much like some of Dulcie’s dreams that she didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘I’m sorry, I wish I could be sure.’ Chris poured the rest of the coffee. ‘I thought he said something about “an author”. But maybe it was “another”. Another author? Who knows what it meant, what he meant,’ he said, as he retreated to the bedroom to dress. ‘But I’ve got to keep looking. Maybe I’ll even find something.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Fully caffeinated and with a renewed sense of purpose, Dulcie headed toward the little clapboard that housed the departmental headquarters. Today was going to be awful, there was no way around it. But the knowledge that Chris was on her side – that Chris was Chris again – made her optimistic. No, he didn’t like the idea of her working with Paul Barnes, but he seemed to accept her plan. And he was going to have another whack at Stella Roebuck’s computer.

  Even the weather seemed to be obliging. It was cold, something would be seriously wrong if New England weren’t cold in December, but the stray clouds of the night before had cleared away, leaving the day as clear and fresh as a mint. Wintergreen, Dulcie thought to herself. Or, more accurately, winter blue.

  Blue certainly described the mood at the English department headquarters, although peacefulness had no place in it. Dulcie felt the atmosphere the moment she walked in, perhaps because of the look on Nancy’s face.

  ‘You heard?’ she asked the kindly secretary, her voice low. Suddenly her own relative optimism seemed out of place.

  Nancy nodded. ‘The police have been here, and the phone has been ringing constantly.’ She was talking softly too, and paused to look up toward the stairs, where Martin Thorpe had his office. ‘I’m hoping he can have a little time now to get himself together.’

  ‘He must be a wreck.’ It wasn’t always easy to sympathize with her adviser. Today was an exception.

  ‘To be honest, I’m a little worried about him.’ Nancy leaned in for her confidence. ‘He’s positively sick.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Dulcie responded, thinking of the last time she had seen Thorpe. ‘But, you know, to some extent he did it to himself.’

  Nancy’s head jerked back, and Dulcie realized that the secretary had misunderstood.

  ‘I don’t mean—’ She�
��d started off wrong. ‘I mean, he’s probably got the hangover from hell,’ Dulcie hurriedly explained. ‘I understand the pressure had been enormous. But, Nancy, even before Tesla – even before the accident – Thorpe was three sheets to the wind.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Nancy was clearly taken aback, and Dulcie immediately felt guilty.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said. ‘But he was awfully drunk last night.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’ Nancy was shaking her head. ‘Mr Thorpe doesn’t drink.’

  Dulcie started to protest, but decided against it. Nancy hadn’t seen her boss the night before, and maybe it was just as well if she kept a few illusions. Besides, they had bigger problems today, like the phone that had never stopped ringing.

  ‘English and American Literatures and Language.’ Nancy was nothing if not professional. Still, Dulcie could tell the call wasn’t business as usual by the way the secretary slumped after her perky greeting. ‘Yes, I know. We’re doing – we’re doing everything we can to help.’ She paused. ‘An awful tragedy.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, that’s true.’ An even longer pause. ‘We are planning to proceed, with an opening address by Martin Thorpe.’ From the look of her face immediately after that, Dulcie deduced that the caller had hung up.

  ‘Are they all like that?’ Dulcie asked.

  Nancy nodded, then stopped herself. ‘No, not all of them. Too many though.’ She leaned back against her desk. It wasn’t yet ten a.m., but she looked as tired as Dulcie had ever seen her. ‘People don’t seem to understand why we’re going on with the conference.’ She shook her head. ‘Marco Tesla’s death is a tragedy, nothing less. But we have people from all over the world here for the weekend. Are we just going to send them home?’

  ‘Not before Detective Rogovoy speaks to them.’ Too late, Dulcie realized that Nancy had been speaking metaphorically. Seeing the color drain out of Nancy’s face, Dulcie hurried to cover up. ‘I mean, just to get information. To find out what happened, and everything.’

  ‘I thought – I thought …’ Nancy looked positively grey.

  ‘Nancy, please, sit down.’ Dulcie pulled her desk chair out and maneuvered the plump secretary into it. ‘Put your head down, between your knees. May I get you some water?’

  ‘How will I drink with my head down like this?’ The face that turned to look up at Dulcie had a bit of pink in it.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’ A wave of relief swept over Dulcie; Nancy wasn’t the fainting sort.

  ‘No, it was I who didn’t think.’ Nancy sat up but stayed seated. ‘I’d heard that Professor Tesla had fallen. I just assumed, well, the worst.’

  ‘That he’d been drinking?’ Dulcie was still hoping that the fall would be deemed an accident. That would be bad enough. But Nancy was shaking her head.

  ‘No, though I wouldn’t blame the poor man.’ She looked up at Dulcie. ‘Considering what he was going through.’

  ‘Nancy, what are you talking about?’ Dulcie felt like they’d jumped into a different conversation. ‘What was Marco Tesla going through?’

  Nancy looked down at her hands. ‘It’s not for me to say, really. And it certainly isn’t for me to judge.’

  ‘Nancy?’ Dulcie was getting an idea, but that idea didn’t make sense. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Well, that the poor man simply couldn’t stand it any more,’ Nancy said, her voice both soft and gentle. ‘That Marco Tesla committed suicide.’

  THIRTY

  Dulcie stared at the departmental secretary open-mouthed. That was an option she hadn’t even considered. ‘Suicide?’ The word sounded foreign in her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ Nancy’s eyes darted toward the stairway.

  ‘Nancy, you can’t just leave it like that,’ Dulcie leaned in. ‘Why did you say that? Do you know something?’ She paused. ‘You have to tell me.’

  Nancy only shook her head. ‘I never should have mentioned it,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, being here, sometimes I hear things.’ Dulcie knew what she was talking about. Among the grad students and much of the faculty, Nancy was such a benign constant that it was easy to forget she was there.

  ‘Who said it was suicide?’ She stopped herself. She didn’t think there’d been time for anyone to come by this morning. ‘I mean, who suggested that Tesla might be considering it?’

  It was too late. Nancy only shook her head. ‘I really don’t think I should talk about it. It was gossip, pure speculation at best, and I probably misheard it, anyway, what with everything going on …’ She waved her hand in a gesture that could have encompassed the totality of university politics, as well as the recent tragedy. ‘And really, everybody complains about that balcony, with its low railing and all.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Dulcie knew Nancy well enough to know that, as soft-spoken as the departmental secretary might be, she could also be stubborn, when her principles were engaged. ‘Still,’ she couldn’t help musing, ‘suicide … that would be so wonderful.’ Even as the relief flowed into her, Dulcie felt Nancy tense. ‘I’m sorry,’ Dulcie back-pedaled. ‘I just mean, as opposed to the alternative.’

  That wasn’t much better. The kindly secretary was staring at her, mouth agape.

  ‘Nancy,’ Dulcie rushed to explain. ‘I’m afraid – no, I’ve been afraid that it wasn’t an accident, but that it was, you know, someone pushed—’

  ‘You mean murder?’ Nancy’s pitch rose and for a moment Dulcie was afraid that the poor woman would start yelling. Before she could explain, another voice broke in.

  ‘Who is calling it murder?’ Thorpe, coming down the stairs, was peering into the room. ‘I wasn’t told there was a ruling yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Nancy was on her feet. Dulcie reached for her, to urge her to sit, but the older woman had already stepped toward Thorpe. ‘We weren’t gossiping,’ she added. Thorpe didn’t seem convinced. ‘Ms Schwartz was simply telling me what she knew.’

  ‘And that’s not gossiping.’ Thorpe shook his head, and then seemed to regret it, reaching out to steady himself against the door jamb.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Thorpe?’ Nancy took his arm. Even Dulcie had come forward.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded. His closed eyes and the sweat that had broken out on his brow seemed to belie his assertion, but he pulled himself upright. ‘I am simply a bit ill.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and dabbed at his brow. ‘However, that doesn’t mean that I have lost the ability to hear.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie stepped up. Nancy shouldn’t have to take the rap. ‘I was telling Nancy that Detective Rogovoy – he’s the cop who questioned me – was implying that someone, well, that someone may have helped Marco Tesla to fall.’

  Thorpe’s brow wrinkled, sweat popping out again. ‘But I thought I heard …’

  ‘You did.’ Nancy took his arm and led him toward her chair. ‘I’m afraid that’s what I may have said, when I heard about what had happened. Because of what happened with his paper and all. Here,’ she quickly filled a cup of water. ‘Please drink this, Mr Thorpe. You appear unwell.’

  He nodded and took a sip. ‘It is the strangest thing,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t feel like myself this morning.’

  ‘Paper?’ Dulcie looked over at Nancy, hoping to catch the secretary’s eye. She did, but the older woman simply shook her head in a censorious manner.

  ‘I wonder if I ate or drank something that was off?’ He wiped his brow again. Dulcie opened her mouth, but one look from Nancy shut her down.

  ‘Could it have been the punch, sir?’ Her tone was solicitous. ‘Perhaps, with all the distractions, you might have overindulged?’

  Dulcie had to hand it to her. The way Nancy was asking, tying one on was a logical move.

  ‘No.’ With a shake of his head, Thorpe rejected the possibility. ‘I know about those punches. I didn’t …’ He paused, his hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, my head.’

  Dulcie looked at the man. It was po
ssible that he was innocent. The cider, for example, had been just as deadly as the punch. Of course, there was another option, one that now sprang into her thoughts.

  ‘Mr Thorpe, why don’t you tell us about how you ended up leaving the party last night? And when?’ She was watching her adviser, but the quick movement of Nancy’s head made her turn. The secretary was scowling, as much as she could, and mouthing the word ‘no’.

  ‘I don’t mean to imply anything,’ Dulcie said, as much to Nancy as to the man seated before her. ‘Nothing of the kind. It’s only, well, I could be wrong, but I definitely got the impression from Detective Rogovoy that he suspected some kind of foul play.’ She paused, trying to figure out a wording that wouldn’t upset her adviser even more. ‘And I don’t believe you were one of the partygoers who stayed around to be questioned.’

  ‘Well, I know I felt unwell.’ Thorpe looked up at her, his face pale as paste. ‘That’s why I left when I did. I’m sure I left before all of … all of this happened. I must have. But before that … it’s strange. It’s all a bit unclear now.’ He mopped at his temples.

  ‘Unclear?’ Dulcie paused to consider her phrasing. ‘Then, how do you know when you left?’

  Thorpe shook his head. ‘I know I saw Paul Barnes and that woman—’

  ‘Stella Roebuck?’ Dulcie broke in, but Thorpe kept on talking.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘The redhead. Big woman. The one you—’ He paused.