True Grey (12 page)

It was Suze who finally broke the silence, sounding more like the lawyer she was becoming than the friend Dulcie had bonded with in sophomore year. ‘It is an interesting theory,' she said, speaking slowly, as if to a child. ‘The problem, of course, is proof.'

‘We believe you,' Chris broke in with what Dulcie thought to be a suspect vigor. ‘We do! Only, well, you can't really tell the dean – or the police – about your dreams.'

‘It's not just my dreams,' Dulcie tried again. ‘I believe the author was involved in something, something just like this.' She couldn't say murder, not yet. ‘I think that's why she went underground. That's why one of her books hasn't been found, maybe wasn't published under her name. I think, maybe, she was accused, too. Accused of murder, and this lost book might hold the key.'

There, she'd said it. She looked at them, waiting for a reaction. They looked at her, but stayed silent, and Dulcie was struck by the sharp sense that this must be how Esmé often felt. Hadn't she been clear? What didn't they understand?

She tried again. ‘If I could get back into the Mildon, I think I could get proof. I mean, the one page I got to read was quite graphic. And if Melinda had more – more proof – well, I'm sure that it would explain everything.' Even as she said it, she hesitated. The dream images of a body had become so real to her, in the wake of today's horror. But the missing book was fiction. A novel. Dulcie suspected that it was based on real life, but could she be sure? Maybe what Dulcie had been seeing at night was simply the author's imaginings. A scene from a particularly gruesome Gothic.

‘At least, I'm pretty sure it would help.' Honesty compelled her to admit that much, but that was enough. ‘I think.' Suze and Chris exchanged a glance. Chris reached out to put his hand on her knee. When he spoke, his voice was at its softest.

‘Honey? We believe you; we do.' Beside him, Suze nodded vigorously. ‘Only, you see, you don't yet have the proof in hand, and the way things are going, you may not get it anytime soon. So maybe you should just let it lie? Just be happy that the timing exonerates you – and let the police do their job?'

Suze opened her mouth, then shut it. Dulcie knew what she'd been about to say, and ignored her, pointing out that she'd helped the cops before. And that if she was right about Melinda's missing manuscript and the clues it might hold, it could not only explain why she had been killed, but also settle a centuries-old case. It had been hard to think of her recurring dream, in the wake of what had happened in Dardley House, but she made herself do it – visualizing the candlelit room, the books. The blood. There were clues here too; there had to be. Something that connected with what Melinda had written; something that would explain the missing book by
The Ravages
author.

Unless everything she had dreamed was simply a made-up scene from a lost novel. Or, worse, the result of late-night pizza. Dulcie closed her eyes and sank back into the sofa, admitting defeat. If she couldn't convince these two – if she couldn't convince herself – what hope did she have?

The silence was broken by a soft thud. Esmé had jumped on to the sofa and set to work kneading Dulcie's leg. Without opening her eyes, she reached out to stroke the soft fur and was rewarded by a resounding purr. After several minutes of this, Suze finally cleared her throat.

‘Well, I guess I should be going. I told Ariano I'd call him when I knew what was going on.'

‘Oh, of course!' Dulcie could hear Chris get to his feet. ‘We shouldn't have kept you. I can't thank you enough for getting her – for getting her out of there.'

‘Thanks,' Dulcie murmured, the rhythmic pulse of the kitten's action lulling her into sleep. ‘Really, Suze.'

‘Don't mention it.' Suze leaned over and kissed Dulcie's cheek, and Dulcie managed a smile. She could hear Chris walking her out. Undoubtedly the two were making some kind of plans together to keep her out of trouble. They meant well, she knew, but she'd have to find a way around them. She might not be sure of anything, not yet, but she wasn't going to leave this alone – not when she, and her author, were both somehow implicated in a murder.

For now, though, she was more concerned with the little cat. Esmé had ceased her kneading and now lay sprawled across Dulcie's lap. She could feel the cat's breath on her hand as she inhaled and exhaled, the tone of her purr rising and falling. She also felt the warm softness of the comforter Chris was pulling over her, tucking her in. Another kiss, this one lingering, and she was out.

B
lood. There was so much blood. The precious ichor stained her still, mocking her attempts to cleanse herself. Her hands, no longer soft, no longer white, now held further defilement, the mark of mortality sunk into every crevice and joint. Her skirt, she had found, was stained with the taint of it, as dark as her own curls falling forward, as if to shield her from any inquisitive soul, heavy and stiff where she had kneeled, hoping. No, praying, to find her senses wrong. It was no use. The life essence that had drained from him lay still and cold, marring the red-gold of his hair. So, too, lay the young aristocrat – the man who had pursued her. The one who would have ruined her beyond that pallid infamy named by society. The one, she realized, her horror growing ever larger, whose power had increased, e'en as his lifeblood ebbed away. She could run no farther. He had her now.

Dulcie woke with a start, disoriented and breathing hard. A soft ‘mew' of annoyance beside her caught her attention and brought her back. She was not trapped in some grisly snare, entwined with the fate of a dead or dying man. She was lying on the sofa, with Esmé perched on the pillow behind her. She was home. She was safe.

Apologizing to the cat, Dulcie sat up and checked the clock. Almost nine, Sunday morning. Chris must still be at work, she realized. The vague memory of him tucking her in came back, and she smiled. The comforter really was quite cozy, a gift from Chris's mom and softer than the commune-made quilt Lucy had sent off with Dulcie when she'd come east. She drew the soft fluffiness around her, more for comfort than for warmth. The morning was already heating up, but for now the air was balmy and gentle, like the memory of that kiss. Clearly, Chris had let their quarrel go. It was the dream that wouldn't leave her alone.

Wandering into the kitchen, Dulcie put the kettle on. She would need some sustenance if she was going to make sense of the nightmare's latest iteration.

‘Mrrrrup?' Esmé leaned against her shin.

‘You too?' The feel of the little cat started the work the cocoa would do, calming Dulcie. ‘Hang on.'

Reaching into the cabinet, she found the bag of treats. She and Chris had talked about this. Esmé didn't seem to be growing any more. Or, to be specific, not growing in length or height. In order to keep her at a healthy weight, they'd agreed that the chewy fish bites were to be a once-a-week treat.

‘Mrrrrow?'

Sometimes, Dulcie decided, a girl needed something beyond the necessities.

Dulcie knelt and held out her hand. The rough warmth of the cat's tongue made quick work of the fish-shaped treats, and Dulcie was considering pouring out a few more when the kettle started to whistle. Luckily, the hot cocoa was where she'd remembered it, and even if it wasn't seasonally appropriate, she wanted some. Soon she was seated at the kitchen table, Esmé bathing on the place mat in front of her, as she waited for the drink to cool and went over the horror of the dream.

One possibility, the one she liked least, was that the original dream had been somehow prophetic – a preview of what happened in Dardley House – and that now it simply lingered. ‘Lucy would have a field day with that,' she told the cat. Esmé didn't even look up. Unlike her mother, Dulcie didn't give most psychic phenomenon much credence – nothing beyond talking ghost cats, that is.

There was another possible linkage between yesterday's tragedy and her nightmare. Perhaps, somehow, her anger had spurred the dream. ‘Is that possible?' She stirred her cocoa and sipped. Too hot. ‘No.' She shook her head. The nightmare started before she had ever heard of Melinda Sloane Harquist.

She took another sip. Maybe her unconscious was merely playing out her scholarly instincts. After all, in her dreams, she now saw the victim looking like he did in that handwritten fragment, as opposed to how he had been described in the printed page she had found. Was that significant? Did it relate, somehow, to a real crime that the author was describing? Or were her dream senses simply set to analyze any text, much as she did during her waking hours?

Dulcie looked around for a pen. When she didn't find one in the kitchen, she was neither surprised nor deterred. However, her desk was suspiciously free of any writing implements, too. As was Chris's. And, while she was looking, Esmé had made herself scarce.

‘Esmé?' The little cat did not respond. At least she wasn't sleeping on the laptop again. ‘Esmé, would you mind leaving me just one pen? Or a pencil?'

Dulcie wasn't expecting a response. Some crimes really were just what they seemed. But, perhaps to prove that clemency, if not reform, was always possible, a soft rattle broke the morning quiet.

‘Esmé?' Dulcie got down on the floor to investigate – and found a beaten-up red ballpoint. Chewed-up, actually, she realized as she examined the mashed plastic casing. And not by the cat, either. Dulcie smiled to herself as she remembered chomping on the pen. She'd been grading papers – and trying to diet – and had bitten the end of the plastic pen down to the ink cartridge inside, rendering it unusable. She, not Esmé, had been the one to toss this particular writing implement against the wall.

‘You're not off the hook for all the others, you know,' Dulcie called out. But although she waited, hoping for an answer, none came, and after a few moments fingering the useless pen, she reached a decision. ‘I'm going out,' she said to the apparently empty room. All she was doing at home was spinning her wheels. She might never understand her recurring nightmare, but if she could answer just a few of the questions rattling around her brain, maybe she'd sleep better tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, she was on her way out. Esmé had appeared while she was dressing, attacking her sneaker lace as if it were the enemy and almost dissuading Dulcie from her plans.

‘You're adorable, and you know it,' she said to the cat, gently removing claws from canvas. ‘And I bet Chris told you to keep an eye on me. But really, you don't have to worry. I'm just going to the library.'

Esmé looked up at her person, her green eyes bright. ‘I promise,' Dulcie said, as the black and white face tilted, the tufted ears alert. It must simply be the memories of the day before, she told herself as she grabbed her bag and headed toward the door. That and the cat wanting to play. Dulcie knew Esmé was a special cat; the young feline had proved it only yesterday. Still, there was no reason for her to look so worried about Dulcie. All she was going to do was some research.

‘O
h, Ms Schwartz!' Thomas Griddlehaus was wringing his hands.

‘Good morning to you, too, Mr Griddlehaus.' Dulcie had gone straight to the Mildon Collection upon arriving at Widener. With Melinda Sloane Harquist out of the picture, there was no reason for the collection to be on lockdown any longer, and the sight of the slight clerk, blinking behind his oversized glasses, was doing her more good than that cocoa.

‘Ms Schwartz, you're not . . . We're closed.' He was biting his lip now, as well as wringing his small, pink hands.

‘I thought on Sundays you opened at nine.' She looked around for the scheduled hours. ‘I know it's early, but I couldn't sleep. I . . . You must have heard what happened.'

He blanched, and she immediately felt guilty. Thomas Griddlehaus was a sensitive soul. ‘She was so young.' He was examining his hands. ‘Just starting out.'

‘Yes, she was.' Dulcie gave the clerk a moment to collect himself. ‘And I am sorry. But since she won't be needing special access any more, maybe I can get some work done? Maybe you can let me in while you set up?' A small squeak alerted her. ‘Wait, this isn't just that you haven't opened the Mildon yet, is it? This is something new?'

He nodded. ‘I'm not supposed to know the details, but everyone is talking about it. All the library staff, at any rate. At first, as you know, we had been told that everything
she
had requested was on lockdown. Then, this morning, we got a text message that the Mildon itself was closed until further notice. The dean had the temerity to suggest that this wouldn't be a big deal, because today is Sunday. You would think a dean of
research
would know better.'

Dulcie shrugged. She had not had any opinion of the new dean before this week. The one she was garnering now didn't prompt her to jump to his defense.

Thomas Griddlehaus, perhaps emboldened by his confession, leaned in close again. ‘You were there,' he said, his voice barely audible. ‘When they came by to search her materials, they told me.'

She nodded, unwilling to elaborate.

‘They told me you were questioned.'

Dulcie sighed. She wasn't going to be able to avoid this. ‘I told the police everything I knew, which wasn't much. They don't know what happened, and I don't know either. It could have been an accident . . .' She heard her voice trail off and knew she hadn't made a convincing case. That's when it hit her. ‘Wait, you said – you said she was young. Too young. You met her? You got to meet Melinda Harquist?'

He nodded and glanced up. Dulcie didn't think she was imagining the blush on his pale cheeks. ‘She wasn't what I expected at all. Not after what I had heard, you know. She was, oh, younger. Prettier.'