True Grey (19 page)

What did cats dream about? Dulcie watched her pet stretch slightly and settle more on her stomach. She looked almost like an all-black cat from this angle. Even the pink of her nose was hidden.

Color. Did cats dream in color? In her own night-time re-imagining, the victim had had red hair, the ‘red-gold' of the handwritten manuscript rather than the ‘raven' black of the printed version.

But there was something else, too. Dulcie turned from her too-brief notes on the book's page to the few she'd jotted down about her dream. ‘
Her own raven curls descended, shielding her face from the inquisitive light.
' That was how the dream had started, as if narrated from the author's own writing. Now Dulcie read aloud to the cat, who blinked at her sleepily. ‘
Black as raven's wings
,' she'd written. ‘Black as Melinda's,' she added, and then fell silent as her eyes moved on to the next passage. She must have been half awake by this part of the dream. All she had were vague memories of a chase. She'd jotted down a few impressions: the heroine was assumed to be the killer, though clearly she had been set up—

‘Wait.' Dulcie sat up, causing Esmé to jump to the floor in disgust. Dulcie barely noticed: this was getting too close for comfort. This was her nightmare. It might also be a dramatization of a crucial scene from the missing novel. But it was also what had happened – what was happening – to her. And for all that she'd always felt a connection to this author, ‘her' author as she'd always thought of her, finding herself stuck in one of her more lurid plots was not fun.

If only she hadn't gone up to the visiting scholar's suite. If only she'd taken better notes.

Dulcie slumped back on the sofa and, in lieu of the cat, reached for the bag of Chips Ahoy. She'd picked it up in Central Square hours before, while waiting for her takeout order of dun dun noodles at Mary Chung's. Sunday wasn't her usual night for Chinese, but the woman who had taken her order hadn't seemed to mind, only smiling ever so slightly when Dulcie tacked on a
suan la chow show
and some stir-fried pea-pod stems for balance.

She'd called Chris first, in the vain hope that she'd misunderstood his message. When he worked the overnight, he still got to hang around for dinner. Her boyfriend sounded like she felt as he'd explained that, no, this was a particularly full night. Darlene had signed on for an open house, which meant answering questions from undergrads who, especially this early in the semester, had no idea how to maneuver around the university system. That ran till ten, and then the overnight shift kicked in.

‘At least it's money, Dulce,' he'd said sadly. ‘Maybe I can take you out next week?'

‘Maybe,' she'd responded, sinking into her own slough of despond. ‘Hey, what say I come by?' She often dropped in when he was working the overnight. It could be a lonely shift, and they both could use the company.

‘I don't know, Dulce.' His voice sank even more. ‘You know how September is. I've barely had time to breathe. I don't think I'll get to any of my own work till at least two. Speaking of, I should go.'

‘OK then.' In the background, she heard her boyfriend greeting someone and inviting him or her to pull up a chair. ‘Talk to you later.'

‘See you.' And that was that. His sign-off, she knew, was simply a sign of the craziness around him, but she felt it like a cold wind. Dinner and comfort had turned to the faintest of farewells. She hadn't, she realized too late, even told him what was going on. That was when she'd called in her takeout order, and ducked into the convenience store next door for the chocolate chip cookies. She hadn't even waited to get home before she'd pulled the bag open.

Now, three hours later, noodles and cookies were all gone. Dulcie was trying to make sense of her notes – and nursing a touch of indigestion. And her author seemed intent on switching things around, not to mention invading her dreams.

‘Red hair, black hair,' Dulcie pulled the earlier note back to her and reread it. ‘Why did I write this down? What does it even mean?'

For lack of another cookie, she started playing with one of her own curls, stopping herself just as she was about to start chewing on its end. The summer sun had left it coppery, Dulcie noted, pulling one ringlet in front of her eyes. Still, it was a far cry from the red-gold that Lucy thought it should be. The color of a real heroine. Or, she noted, of this victim. Maybe she ought to be grateful. Maybe—

‘Esmé, please!' Just in time, Dulcie grabbed the lamp. Fully rested, Esmé had begun to careen around the living room like a rubber ball. ‘What is it with you?'

‘Mrrow?' As if in response, the little tuxedo cat turned and mewed, looking up into Dulcie's face as if she expected an answer.

‘Look, I know you can talk.' Dulcie resettled the lamp and reached to haul the cat up into her lap.

‘Nnnow!' Those white feet kicked out, scratching Dulcie's outstretched hand, and Dulcie dropped her.

‘Ow.' Dulcie shook her hand as Esmé bounded away. A thin red line had appeared along the ball of her thumb. ‘Esmé, can't you play nicely? I've had a hell of a day.'

‘Wow.' The sound, coming as it did from the kitchen, sounded almost apologetic, and Dulcie smiled.

‘That's OK, kitty. I was just trying to make sense of my notes, and, well, there may just be no sense to be had here. I mean, why would I dream that the victim was a redhead when I had only read the final version, where his hair is black? Is this all just because of Melinda – and Lucy? And if it is . . .'

It took a bit of sorting. Lucy would say that she had sensed the author's original intent, that Dulcie had known the story had first been written with a red-haired victim in mind – and that her discovery of the manuscript page proved that. Then again, if Dulcie hadn't found that page, Lucy would undoubtedly have some other perfectly implausible explanation. Like maybe Dulcie had made the victim a redhead – like Lucy, like all the women in her family – because in her dream state she sensed that she, Dulcie, was somehow involved. Knowing Lucy, she would probably also be quite confident that it was more than an accident that Dulcie had been the one to come across the body. Either way, to her mother Dulcie's dreams always tended to prove that some form of psychic ability did run in the family.

‘Like red – well, reddish – hair,' Dulcie said out loud. ‘No, that's crazy.' Hearing your cats' voices was one thing. That was because of the strong connection she had had with Mr Grey, Dulcie had decided long ago. And Esmé? Well, in some way, Mr Grey had chosen the little tuxedo kitten to be his successor. It made sense that she could talk. When she wanted to, that is.

Still, even putting Lucy's dueling explanations aside, there had to be something else in the strange juxtaposition of victim and killer in both versions of the story and her dream. Unless – wait – Dulcie caught herself. The fragment she had read, both in the printed and manuscript version, hadn't contained much plot. A woman sees a man who is lying dead on a rug in a library. The scene had been described in detail, with the emphasis on gruesome features that distinguished the overblown fiction of the day. But it had been written with a precision many of its contemporaries lacked, full of lifelike – or deathlike – particulars and showing a command of language that Dulcie had instantly recognized. And Dulcie had simply assumed that she was reading a horror story, a tale of murder or the like, as narrated by the killer.

But maybe the protagonist – the woman describing the scene – had not killed the man lying on the carpet. Maybe she was as innocent as Dulcie herself was, and this passage was an attempt to explain or justify her presence on the scene. If that were the case, would that explain the switch – Melinda's black curls for the gore-clotted red-gold hair?

‘
Chase me!
' Like a black-and-white rocket, Esmé shot past, interrupting Dulcie's train of thought for the umpteenth time. ‘
Chase me!
'

‘You finally speak to me, and that's what you say?' Dulcie laughed. The little cat was impossible to resist, and the flash of language – faint like the voice on a bad long-distance line – only made her antics more compelling. ‘Do you want to tell me why?'

In response, the cat turned and stared up at her, tail lashing. Dulcie jumped up and went after her, calling her name as they dodged through the living room until this time the lamp nearly did go over.

‘I give up!' Dulcie called, finally collapsing on the sofa. ‘You're too fast for me.'

‘
In that case,
' the voice came to her as two green eyes peeked over the end of the sofa, ‘
I'll chase you!
' And with that, the little head darted down, bit Dulcie's bare foot, and dashed off to parts unknown.

‘Esmé!' Dulcie called out, grabbing at her foot. ‘No!'

The bite, she saw, hadn't broken the skin. It did put an end to the game, however. ‘It's not your fault, kitten!' Dulcie called after her pet. It was Chris's, she knew. He never could break his own habit of rough-housing with the little hunter, and by doing so he reinforced all her bad behaviors.

‘
Bad behaviors, huh!
' The voice, like a distant sigh, barely reached her ears.

‘Esmé, I've got to get back to work,' she called into the other room. ‘There's got to be some sense to be found in here. There
has
to be.'

Her dreams, the story fragment, and Melinda's death. They were all connected somehow, and, no matter what her mother would say, Dulcie wasn't ready to believe that she had simply picked up on what was going to happen. She thought back on what Griddlehaus had said: Somewhere in these notes was a clue, an actual factual link to whatever Melinda had found. Maybe, even, why she had been killed. If she could find out what that was, she could clear her own name – and maybe finish her thesis after all.

With that, she dived back in, reading and rereading her notes. When that didn't reveal anything, she went back to her timeline. Where had her author surfaced? When had her silent period been? Somewhere in here lay the key, of that Dulcie was sure.

‘
Why does she do that?
' In the hallway, the little black and white cat stopped playing for a moment to look back at her mistress, bent once more over her books. ‘
Why doesn't she listen?
'

‘
It's as hard for her as it can be for you, little one.
' Another voice, deeper and quieter still, caused those white-tufted ears to perk up. ‘
She isn't awake yet to all the possibilities. Give her time, little one. Give her time.
'

'
T
was blood she fear'd. Blood. A pollution in the body that would haunt her, e'ermore. 'Twas this, and not the slights against her person that haunted her. Drove her, compelling her to e'er more desperate acts.

In her sleep, Dulcie tossed and turned, her dreaming eye caught on the image of a dark-haired woman, pacing in a small garret room. Then she was that woman, and they were her thoughts, full of anxiety and doubt, that she heard.

Mayhap she should grant him what he wished, a visitation, nothing more. If reason were her ally, he would perceive the injury done her. The insult perpetuated with each advance. He would repent, as she had. She stopped, cold, her head turning toward the low wall, toward the fire, toward that which kept warm there. No, she could not lie. Not to herself, nor to the one who watched, still and quiet. She knew, she would always know. It was too late. There would be no repentance for her of this deed, e'en unto death.

‘Death!' Dulcie woke for real then, sitting up so quickly that Esmé squealed. Dulcie turned to the cat, who in the bright morning light looked quite affronted by her sudden movement. ‘
There would be no repentance.
' The words echoed in her mind, even as she reached out to her pet in her own apology. ‘
E'en unto death.
'

‘Oh, Esmé, it's worse than I thought.' Dulcie gathered the soft feline in her arms, and Esmé, as if sensing her mood, went willingly. ‘My author – the author of
The Ravages
– she must have gone mad. All that talk about “pollution”, Esmé. I think she really killed him.'

If Esmé could have answered, she didn't, and Dulcie was left with only the comfort of the warm animal beside her. To give full credit, Esmé did purr, and Dulcie was almost lulled back to sleep, lying next to all that soft fur. However, fear that the nightmare would return kept her from dropping off and finally she hauled herself out of bed.

‘Might as well get ready for class,' she explained, as Esmé yawned and stretched out one white paw. ‘Not that you have to worry about that.'

In truth, Dulcie wasn't sure if she did, either. As she started the coffee, she weighed the possibilities. Disciplinary probation wasn't something she'd ever worried about, and so she had never learned its rules. They couldn't bar her from teaching, though, could they? Then again, if they thought she might be ethically corrupt, they might fear her sullying young minds.

That letter – the one Dean Haitner had handed her. What had she done with it? Dulcie left the kitchen to rummage through her bag. She had a clear sense of Haitner handing her the letter, and of her showing it to her friends. And then? Too much had been going on.

‘I can't believe all the crap I have in here,' Dulcie commented, pulling out a Xeroxed handout from the spring semester and three receipts from Lala's. ‘Why do I even keep these?' she asked aloud, balling them up. Esmé declined to answer, but sprang to attention as Dulcie launched the ball toward the garbage. ‘Don't worry,' Dulcie added glumly, when against the odds the projectile hit its target. ‘There'll be more.'

Two more receipts and a takeout menu followed, before Dulcie spotted the dean's letterhead, sticking out from between the pages of one of her yellow legal pads. ‘There you are.' Dulcie pulled at it and heard the paper begin to tear. ‘Whoa.' She extracted the letter, pad and all, from the overstuffed bag. Something sticky – glue, honey, some of Lala's famous hot sauce – held them together, and she gingerly pulled the pages apart. As she did so, another piece of paper – white, with typing on it – fell out of her pad and drifted to the floor.