True Grey (17 page)

‘Maybe it is.' Dulcie had no other answer. ‘He's my adviser. He's read all my roughs. I gather they talked about it.'

‘I can't believe Thorpe didn't defend you.' Lloyd pushed the plate of cookies toward Dulcie. She broke off a piece, and then crumbled it into crumbs. ‘No, I'm sorry. He's a coward. I can imagine him not standing up to Haitner. What I can't see is anyone thinking you are capable of that kind of dishonesty.'

‘Well, he did –
they
did – so get over it.' Trista, who had fallen suspiciously silent, had been building up a head of steam. ‘I'm sorry, Lloyd. This makes me so mad.' She looked up at Dulcie. ‘You called Chris, right?'

‘As soon as I got out of there,' she told her friends. ‘I left a message.'

‘I'm sure he'll call,' said Lloyd, trying to sound reassuring. Somehow that made it all worse.

‘Of course he'll call,' Dulcie snapped. She hated their skewed schedule and never knowing where her boyfriend was. ‘Sorry.' She slumped further in her seat. ‘It's the new semester. I don't know his schedule yet, and I just felt so alone.'

‘So you called us,' Trista broke in. ‘Which was exactly the right thing to do. The question now is – what is our next step?'

‘I don't know if there is a next step,' said Lloyd, absently breaking off a piece of cookie. ‘I mean, isn't Dulcie supposed to wait until she's notified of a hearing?'

Trista glared at her fellow Victorian. ‘She can't just sit there, and we have to help her. Right, Dulcie?'

Under Trista's ice-blue gaze, Dulcie drew back. But the effect was bracing. ‘I want to,' she said, almost in a whisper. The full weight of the accusation was sinking in. Plagiarism. She'd be expelled, her academic career over.

Worse, she would never get back into the Mildon. Never get to finish tracking down the remnants of that lost book. She thought of Griddlehaus, of their cozy routine. There would be no more uncataloged goodies to go through. No more orderly procession of boxes, archival or otherwise. ‘I don't even know where to start.'

‘That's where we come in.' Trista leaned in. ‘First, one of us – not you, Dulcie – has to find a way to track down who made this accusation.' Lloyd nodded, engaged. ‘It has to have come from the department so we've got to be careful who we talk to and what we say. Lloyd, you find out who else is working on the Gothics. I'm going to see if I can get anyone to show us the paperwork on this. I mean, this place? There's got to be forms filed in triplicate, and I know some of the support staff.'

Trista's words sparked a memory. ‘One of my students works in the dean's office,' she said. ‘Andrew Geisner. He's a sophomore in my English 10 section.' She pictured the surfer-blond sophomore. He'd been friendly enough at lunch.

‘Do you trust him?' Trista was so focused she was squinting.

‘I don't know. He's a nice guy, though. Smart, and he's doing well in the class.'

‘Damn.' Trista slammed back in her seat and blew up into her own blonde bangs. ‘So you don't have any hold over him.'

‘Tris!' Dulcie almost laughed. ‘The whole point of this is to prove that I'm ethical.' Her friend only raised one pierced brow. ‘But he is sympathetic. He came up to me at lunch to say something.'

‘So he knows?' Lloyd was a little behind.

Dulcie shook her head. ‘He was sympathizing about the whole Melinda thing. Dear goddess,' she put her head down in her hands. ‘That was only yesterday.'

‘Don't worry, Dulcie.' She felt the warmth of Trista's hand on her shoulder. A half second later, and Lloyd's was on her back too, patting her gingerly. She felt like a cat. ‘We'll figure this out,' he finished.

‘We will.' Now that she had a plan, Trista's anger had turned to a more confident form of energy. ‘Dulce, I want you to follow up with this student of yours. Say you need to speak with him. Tell him it's not too early to be looking for a junior paper topic and that you should talk. He'll be flattered. You can use that. Lloyd, see who you can find in the department who might know something about the source of this complaint: Goths, eighteenth-century British fiction, anything like that. Me, I'm going to see what I can find out about Thorpe and the dean. Let's talk tonight.'

With that, she pushed back from the table and stood to go. Lloyd started to get up also, but paused to look at Dulcie. ‘You OK? I've got office hours, but I can cancel.'

‘I'm fine,' she said, and then corrected herself. ‘Well, I'll
be
fine. You guys are the best.' She meant it, and managed to smile. She'd monopolized her friends' time enough over the last few days. Besides, she wanted to think before she spoke to Lloyd again. It had hit her, when Trista had given him his ‘assignment', that he should be looking at American fiction writers from her period, too. And that meant Rafe – Lloyd's friend. Rafe who only a few hours before she had suspected of crimes worse than mere plagiarism.

Was the senior tutor somehow involved in all of this? He'd been in the library, with the EMT and the distressed dean, as Dulcie had been ushered out. In that chaotic time, anything could have happened. Or was it simply that the tragic death had everyone looking for the worst in each other? She needed to sort out what she knew before she raised more accusations. In the meantime, her friends were looking out for her.

Dulcie felt the first surge of optimism she'd had since that summons. As Trista and Lloyd traded names, she finally ate a piece of cookie. The chocolate chip, still warm and half melted from the oven, tasted good. It tasted, she decided, like hope.

F
or a woman who dealt with great works of literature, coming up with a plausible fiction was a surprising challenge. Dulcie had remained at the café table after her friends had taken off, ostensibly to finish the cookies. But the crumbs were long gone now, and Dulcie sat there still, trying to plot out her next move.

Despite Trista's suggestions, Dulcie couldn't imagine leading Andrew Geisner on with the promise of a junior tutorial. Or – she felt her cheeks go warm at the thought of the handsome undergrad – anything else for that matter. No, she'd have to come up with an honest way to solicit information from him. Or semi-honest, at least.

Which meant, she feared, tracking him down in person. The question was: where? From her seat, she could see the light outside beginning to fade. Here in the Science Center, the foot traffic had slowed. A few diehards made their way down to the computer lab, a small group trotted by with a basketball, laughing. None of them even looked like English majors to Dulcie's admittedly biased eyes.

Sunday afternoon, and if she had nothing else pressing, Dulcie would have been in the library. For a moment, her spirits soared. She'd go back to Widener and lay in wait for the tall sophomore. In the meantime, she could return to her notes. Maybe she could make some progress in tracking down whatever it was she had missed. Maybe, once she had her
own
proof, these ridiculous charges would be dismissed.

And maybe Esmé would have her next chapter drafted by the time she got home. No, as much as she'd love to dive back into her work, Dulcie knew it would be a cop out. Besides, she really didn't want to run into Darlene again. The flush burned up her cheeks, hotter now. She really had been close to the ethical edge with Chris's colleague, pushing her for information about Rafe's work. Too close for her own comfort, though not – she was sure – anywhere over the line. Still, the idea of running into the young woman again wasn't an appealing prospect. Mentally, Dulcie crossed Widener off her list.

Dulcie looked around. The café was mostly empty, despite the glorious aroma of those cookies that still emanated from the kitchen. She could, she thought, have just one more. That would at least postpone the decision. But she and Chris had planned on making dinner, and, really, except for the little bits Lloyd had eaten, Dulcie had consumed three of the oversized treats already.

Thinking of Chris, Dulcie realized that she hadn't talked to her boyfriend since the bomb had dropped. She'd called him as soon as she'd left University Hall, but he hadn't answered. Checking her phone, she saw that he had called her back. His message was too short and too cheery: ‘Hey, sweetie! Hope you're feeling better!' She couldn't blame him for that, however. As far as he knew, her life was getting back to normal. She played the message again. Somehow, just hearing his voice helped.

A warmth like the brush of soft fur came over Dulcie as she listened to the brief message a third time, and she found herself shaking her head at her own stupidity. ‘Thank you, Mr Grey,' she said to the empty café. ‘I can't believe I didn't think of it.'

This time, instead of the number for ‘replay' she hit the one for ‘callback', and felt her heart racing in anticipation as the familiar digits beeped along.

‘Hi, you've reached Chris Sorenson . . .' Her spirits plummeted, but by the beep Dulcie had rallied.

‘Hey, sweetie. I'm returning your call.' She paused; that wasn't entirely true. ‘Actually, I have something I could use your help with. Well, a couple of things really. It's been . . .' She searched for the right phrase. He was such a dear, and after her last surprise she didn't want to worry him overmuch. ‘It's been a big day. I guess I'll tell you about it over dinner. See you soon!'

Dinner. Dulcie looked up at the clock – barely past four. Too early to go home, and she'd ruled out the library. If she were still an undergrad—

That was it! Dulcie sprang up, and ran her dirty plate back to the counter. Sunday afternoon tea was a ritual at Dardley House. As the leader of a section, she'd be welcomed. She'd also be besieged by students, which is what had kept her from the social hour before. Still, the tea – which really drew the undergrads with a variety of more solid snacks – would give her a perfect opportunity to buttonhole Andrew Geisner. If he wasn't there, she'd think of something tomorrow. Chris would undoubtedly have some ideas.

With a lighter step, Dulcie crossed the Yard and headed back toward the river. September's late-afternoon light was just beginning to fade to a golden glow. Its warmth – as well as the promise of seeing her sweetheart soon – filled Dulcie with more optimism than she'd felt all day. Those charges were ridiculous. She'd done nothing wrong, and the dean would see that soon enough.

Her mood lasted as she made her way through the Square, weaving through the taller pedestrians and somehow avoiding the eye of the few freshman she recognized. They were still getting their bearings, she realized as she ducked down to pass one she knew. They were probably too busy looking for street signs and trying to remember if it was Bow or Arrow that would take them straight to the indoor track.

It was only as she started down the familiar narrow path that she hesitated. By now, the shadows were lengthening, and Dardley House, with its six turreted entries, loomed like a castle over the pedestrian walkway. Not that medieval fortresses were usually constructed of red brick, Dulcie reminded herself, making herself take one step, then another, toward the undergraduate house. Hermetria's castle had been stone, grey and cold. Not warm like the brick edifice before her. This building was red like the sunset. Like a fire in winter.

Like blood.

The cold chill that ran over her had nothing to do with the weather, Dulcie knew. The late afternoon had cooled down a bit, but her light sweater was more than adequate. It was nerves, and that was all. And as much as she'd like to think that there was a preternatural element to her alarm – a heightened sense, perhaps, or a friendly caution from a certain spectral feline – she did her best to banish that thought. She wasn't Lucy, to take every anxiety as a divine warning. Sometimes, she told herself sternly, a case of the nerves was just that and nothing more.

And so it was with steeled jaw and a determined step that she let herself into the main entrance to Dardley House. ‘I'm here for the tea,' she announced to the startled student on duty, only belatedly hearing the force of her own voice. ‘I mean, I teach a section here,' she amended, more softly and with a smile.

‘Ms Schwartz, yeah, sure.' The young man glanced at her ID and nodded. ‘I took English 10 last year with you.'

‘Oh?' Dulcie didn't like to ask for compliments. Still, it was nice to be remembered. Maybe she'd made a difference in this undergrad's life.

‘Yeah,' he said, half to himself, as he handed her ID back. ‘Realized I don't like reading that much. I'm concentrating in statistics now.'

Dulcie muttered something that she hoped sounded encouraging and shoved her wallet back into her bag. It wasn't her teaching, necessarily. Not everyone was cut out to be a literature and languages scholar. At any rate, she had other duties to think about, and as she stepped into the courtyard one more time, she took a deep breath to help her think, and gasped when she realized what she'd walked into.

The tea was always held in the junior common room. The long wooden table would be loaded with baked goods, the oversized industrial urn holding down one end, along with cream, half and half, and all the other additions necessary to make the over-brewed beverage palatable. That room, however, was part of F entry, in the hallway leading up to the visiting scholars' suite. She had peeked into it, had seen the sun shining off the table's polished surface before proceeding on to . . . Dulcie stood, rooted to the spot. She hadn't thought this through. She couldn't – she wouldn't go back there so soon.

‘Ms Schwartz?' A familiar voice broke into her funk. Andrew Geisner stood in front of her, holding that familiar urn.

She looked up at him and down at the pot-bellied silver. ‘The tea?'

He nodded. ‘Moved.' He nodded toward the dining room. ‘We're taking over the private dining room instead. The senior tutor just thought to change it, and we're running a bit late, so you didn't miss anything.'