Grey Matters (29 page)

‘Then whoever it was probably wouldn’t have broken in.’ Dulcie poured herself a taste and grimaced. ‘This needs to breathe.’

‘Pour me a glass?’ Dulcie did. ‘I don’t know if CPR will help.’ Suze winced. ‘Ah, that’s brisk. But seriously, Dulcie, how do you know what the intention was?’

‘Whoever it was must have been looking for something.’ Suze kept stirring. ‘Right?’

‘You said nothing was taken.’ Suze checked the water. It was boiling, and she opened a box of pasta. ‘From your books, anyway. Now, maybe Lloyd was lying when he said nothing was missing from his. Or,’ she turned to look her roommate in the face, ‘whoever broke in wasn’t a thief. Whoever it was wanted to do some damage. Maybe he wanted to scare you.’

‘I’m sorry, Dulcie, I’m with Suze on this one.’ Despite Dulcie’s best efforts to keep the conversation away from Lloyd, once Chris had shown up Suze managed to make her objections heard. ‘I know you like him. He’s an OK guy. But, well, there’s something fishy going on and he’s dragged you into it now.’ He refilled Dulcie’s glass, but she pushed it away.

‘You’re both treating me like I’m a child.’ She turned from her boyfriend to her roommate. ‘I’m not a fool. The campus police are looking into the break in.’

Chris and Suze exchanged a look. ‘They don’t know about the book. They don’t know that something is up between Lloyd and Professor Bullock.’ Suze’s voice was calm, and Dulcie could hear the lawyer she’d soon be in it. ‘They can’t be expected to reach a reasonable conclusion without all the facts.’

‘OK, then.’ Dulcie looked from one to the other. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Simple.’ Suze spoke first. ‘I want you to call the cops. The Cambridge cops.’

By the time the bottle was empty, Dulcie had given up arguing. Suze might be more involved with the legalities of the situation, but Chris, she knew, was seriously worried about her. He even offered to escort her down to the police station the next morning, once he got off work.

‘No, you don’t have to.’ She had walked him down to the front door. ‘You should just crash when you get off. I’ll call them in the morning.’

He looked at her without speaking.

‘I will, I promise. First thing.’ She looked up at his sweet face. ‘I don’t know if I could make sense of it all right now anyway.’

He smiled at that. ‘Well, then, I’ll leave you with the dishes then. Sorry to eat and run.’

‘Get out of here.’ She pushed him away, playfully, but then let him pull her close for a kiss. ‘I miss you, you know.’ She hadn’t meant to say that. It was the wine.

‘I know, Dulce.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘This is just temporary. I love you, too.’

And with that, he was gone. And Dulcie looked up just in time to see the black and white kitten careening down the stairs.

‘Whoa, kitty. Come here.’ She reached for the little cat, who mewed and batted at her. ‘Are you going to get on my case now, too?’ Lifting the small beast to her face, Dulcie looked into unblinking eyes. ‘Or is there something else going on here?’

The crash of pots from the floor above obscured another soft mew, and Dulcie climbed back up the stairs. From the sound of splashing and the clattering of cutlery, she knew things weren’t going smoothly.

‘You’re pissed.’ The bad red buzzed in Dulcie’s head, leaving her no patience for her roommate’s mood.

Suze’s shoulders heaved in a dramatic sigh.

‘Suze?’

Her roommate turned. ‘I just don’t know about you, Dulcie. I know you’re an academic. You love this stuff. I get it. But life is not all as depicted in your books.’

Dulcie stepped back, stung. ‘Suze, I know that. I’m not completely naive about life, you know.’ Suze grunted and splashed. ‘And what’s wrong with being an academic? At one point, you liked it well enough.’

Suze was running the water full blast and Dulcie couldn’t tell if she’d heard. Still, she kept talking. ‘Even if now you have made it patently obvious that you’re ready to move on.’

‘What do you mean?’ Suze put down the sponge.

Dulcie swallowed, but in for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, what she’d said was true. ‘You don’t care about student life anymore. You barely ever hang out with us. All you care about is getting through this last year.’ She was trying to do what Suze always did, list her facts in a reasonable and orderly fashion. But she felt herself getting choked up. That last glass of wine had been a mistake. ‘I mean, I hardly ever see you anymore.’

‘Hey, that’s not fair.’ Suze sounded hurt, and Dulcie kicked herself. ‘You spend as much time with Chris as I do with Ariano.’

‘Not anymore.’ The tears welled up. ‘Not recently.’

‘Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry.’ Suze stepped toward her, but stopped just short of a hug. Instead, she looked in Dulcie’s face. ‘Are you two fighting?’

Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, he’s just, I don’t know. Absent.’

‘I’m going to make some peppermint tea.’ Suze put the water on. Dulcie watched her. It was a peace gesture. She should have felt better. But all she could think about was what she couldn’t say. That no matter how she denied it, her friend was moving on. And for the last six years, she’d spent Thanksgiving with Suze at her parents’ house. This year, Suze hadn’t even mentioned the upcoming holiday once.

FIFTY-FOUR

T
he first thing she noticed was the smell of smoke. Faint, just a trace in the air, it tickled her nose like cat fur. Half asleep, she reached up to brush the kitten away. All that wine . . . she didn’t want to wake up just yet.

But the smell grew stronger. Ashy. Unmistakable. And Dulcie woke fully with a start – to find herself not in her sunny third-floor bedroom but in a book-lined study, sealed with heavy drapes.

‘What? Where am I?’ Dulcie stood up, and realized she’d been lying on the floor in the kind of heavy brocade gown that would have made uncomfortable nightwear in any era. Indeed, the voluminous skirts made standing difficult, though as she swayed she realized that a throbbing headache contributed to her lack of balance. ‘Hello? Anybody?’

Dulcie looked around. The smell of smoke was stronger now, but in the dim light – those heavy drapes – she could see no sparks, no fire. A tall brick fireplace in the corner was empty and dull. The shelves, their books reaching up into the gloom, equally dark. The ceiling, barely visible in the half light, looked impossibly high, though she could make out carvings in the dark wood. The fumes, though, were growing thicker. She had to shake off her languor, and fast.

Dulcie’s skirts rustled as she ran over to the drapes, her head clearing with every step. But when she pushed them back, her heart sank. Tiny panes, leaded, looked out over nothing. A barren mountainscape, open air falling down to rock. Looking down, Dulcie could have sworn she saw a hawk making lazy circles, far below. It was hopeless, and Dulcie sank into the windowseat, ignoring the puff of dust that rose from the ancient velvet upholstery.

But there – wait! Over in the corner, obscured by shadow, was an exit. Leaping up, Dulcie ran over to the carved wooden door, desperate to wrench it open and, calling out an alarm, run to safety. But the moment she grabbed the ornate doorknob, she jumped back in pain, falling to the carpet as she tripped over those annoying skirts. Hot as a frying pan, the metal knob had burned her hands. From her vantage place on the floor, she looked up. No, it wasn’t glowing, though it might as well have been. And from down here she could clearly see the stream of smoke seeping over the threshold. Soon it would be filling her mouth, her nose. Her lungs.

Dulcie sneezed – and looked up into the round green eyes of her kitten. Blinking once, the kitten jumped back, and Dulcie realized that the tickle of smoke on her lips had indeed been cat hair. At some point, the kitten had laid down on her face.

‘Kitty!’ Too late. All she saw was the bouncing tail as it darted into the hall and down the stairs. Still, yawning in the early morning sun, Dulcie couldn’t be too angry. That nightmare had been horribly real, the sense of danger and helplessness visceral. Too visceral to let her get back to sleep, she decided, even if the clock only said seven. Another stretch and she realized she couldn’t lay all the blame on the kitten. Her own aching head was due as much to last night’s cheap red as to the phantom flames. The pressures were getting to her, if she had drunk that much. Either that or she really had to upgrade her splurges.

But as she brushed her teeth, tiptoeing down the hall so as not to wake Suze, Dulcie realized something else was bothering her, too. Yes, she had promised Suze and Chris that she would talk to the Cambridge police. She didn’t know how much the university cops shared with the city, and it did make sense to make sure that everyone was on the same page. But Lloyd was her friend, too. Thinking back to how trapped she had felt in that dream, she knew she couldn’t do the same thing to him. She’d talk to him first. Come clean about her – or her friends’ – suspicions, and give him a chance to accompany her to the Central Square station. Or, at least, to get his story straight.

And so, after scooping the kitten’s litter (‘good cat!’), she tiptoed down the front steps, tied on her sneakers, and let herself out into the brisk morning air, full of good resolve and without a clue where she was going.

FIFTY-FIVE

N
obody was answering the departmental phone. Even the efficient Nancy didn’t get in this early. But Dulcie wasn’t a researcher for nothing. And as she made her way toward the corner coffeehouse, she had formulated a plan.

‘Latte, double shot.’ This early, she was able to grab a table, and once the barista had taken her order, she pulled her laptop out of her bag. Thanks to Chris’s attentions, the little computer was supercharged – and primed to pick up on any wireless connection. His additions had made it a little slow to start up, however, and while she waited, Dulcie surveyed the cafe. Central Square, only blocks away from the university, might as well have been a separate world. The thin man in the black turtleneck could also be a student, and Dulcie would have put money that the couple huddled in the corner, arguing over opened notebooks, went to the tech school down the road. But the bulk of the clientele at this hour were commuters, popping in to fill their travel mugs and pick up a croissant for the road. Even the buff guy in the painter’s pants probably had a job. The speed with which he was throwing back a steaming chai spoke of places to go and deadlines to meet. Above the counter, well back from the steaming machines, a small bowl held a bright red Siamese fighting fish, Nemo. He swam placidly back and forth, his flaglike dorsal fin down, surveying his domain.

‘Milky twofer.’ A pint glass thumped down on the table, startling Dulcie from her reverie. But as she had waited, her computer had gone into gear, and as she sipped the comforting brew she began punching in various searches, hoping to catch Lloyd Pruitt in the worldwide web.

Ten minutes later, she had what she wanted. An address that seemed current for an apartment down in Cambridgeport. For this kind of chat, she’d already decided, face to face would be best. But as she saved the listing, Dulcie felt the tickle of curiosity. When she’d plugged Lloyd’s name in, more than a dozen items had popped up. Most were pretty obvious. She knew he’d won the Bulgar Prize two years ago. She’d even read the
Harvard Gazette
article that was linked to the university press release. But when she saw Lloyd’s name highlighted on an antiquarian book site, she had to pause. Was this electronic eavesdropping? Conversely, was it anything she really wanted to know?

Dulcie looked up at Nemo. The little fish looked back, or at least it seemed that he did, his tiny red mouth opening and closing in her direction as first one eye, and then another pivoted toward her. But if he had an answer, he wasn’t talking. Dulcie stared at the screen and hesitated, taking another sip of her coffee. Whatever it was, it was public, right?

‘Mr Grey, what would you do?’ She tried to summon the spirit of her pet, but in the noise and bustle of the cafe nothing spectral was forthcoming. Instead, the room seemed to be getting louder. Late commuters, she figured, rushing in panicked and looking for a caffeine fix. Another sip and – crash! – a short-haired man in a suit had knocked into a table, knocking someone’s backpack and coffee mug to the floor with a dramatic bang. A round of good-natured applause went up and the man bowed. Dulcie smiled. Just last night the kitten had tried to get into her bag, sending it – and her own round form – tumbling to the floor.

That was it. Curiosity went with cats. She clicked on the link and waited for the image to resolve. What she saw was more elaborate than she’d expected. An auction site, hosted by an international firm, had listed its recent sales. A first-edition of Dickens had gone for a record amount, and Dulcie imagined Trista there, thumbing through
Little Dorrit
and making wisecracks about its condition. A few signed letters from various dignitaries had been lumped together in one lot. And there, under ‘arcana,’ she found it. One of the pricier offerings had been an early, annotated edition of
Humphrey Clinker
, complete with notes made by its author, Tobias Smollett, shortly before his death. The book was listed as selling to the collection of a Wm. A. Bullock, no title or university affiliation given. But the listing noted that the purchase had been made by one Lloyd Pruitt.

Nemo was watching as Dulcie finished her coffee and headed for the door. He could have told her that she was too distracted. That the idea that her friend might in fact be a thief was blinding her to other possibilities. He could have told her that a moment after she left, the door opened again as another slipped out, much more quietly, from the busy cafe. But he was a fish, and he didn’t.

FIFTY-SIX

W
alking through Central Square as the morning commute died down, Dulcie began to have second thoughts. The main Cambridge Police Station was only a block away, and she had promised both her roommate and her boyfriend that she’d tell them all she knew. As she got the walk signal to cross Massachusetts Avenue, she almost veered off to the right. It would be the work of a few minutes, and then she’d be done. It wasn’t like she was ratting out Lloyd. Rather, she was just sharing information, important information that could be connected to a brutal crime.