True Grey (29 page)

‘You're right, Mr Grey. It's just hard to know sometimes what's real and what's not.'

‘
You're so afraid of mistakes, my dear.
' The voice had softened. ‘
Of going wrong. And yet your heart knows what matters – that even missteps may bring us closer to love. Your heart already knows this, Dulcie.
'

‘So I should let Chris sleep?'
She meant it as a joke, at least in part, mollified by the feline spirit's gentler tone. A low rumble, part purr but part growl, was her only answer, and Dulcie moved on to the kitchen, with Esmé galloping to catch up.

‘It's just that Chris and I haven't had a chance to speak, Mr Grey.' Dulcie kept her voice low as she spooned out the coffee. ‘I mean, I haven't had a chance to explain. And I really want to.' There was no point in trying to hide anything from her spectral pet.

Something much closer to a purr rumbled close by, and she felt the brush of fur on her bare shins. Looking over, she could see Esmé on the other side of the room, staring.

‘
We exist in relation to each other, Dulcie. We are here for each other, because of each other. All else is illusion.
'

‘Does that mean that you're only here because I need you?' As the coffee began to drip, Dulcie looked down. Esmé had taken Mr Grey's place at her feet, and she bent to pet the sleek black back. ‘What about Esmé?' She asked the empty air. ‘What is your relationship to her, or hers to you?'

‘Mrrup.' Esmé responded in classic cat, but Dulcie got the hint, opening a can for her. ‘Maybe I just exist to feed you,' she said as she put the dish down. Esmé, who managed to purr while she ate, declined to respond further, and Dulcie retreated to get dressed.

‘You be good,' she said to Esmé, as she re-emerged ready to start her day. Dulcie had made enough coffee for two, but when the aroma hadn't woken her sleeping beau, she'd filled her commuter cup. Now she stood by the door, reluctant to leave. ‘Don't wake Chris with your rampaging.'

Esmé looked up at her, and although the little cat didn't comment, her eyes seemed to glow with understanding. Dulcie hesitated, on the brink of saying more. If only the little cat would converse with her, as Mr Grey did. At times, Dulcie felt more like her pet's landlady than her person, or maybe her housekeeper and cook, and Dulcie would have loved to enlist her aid with Chris. Well, her boyfriend had undoubtedly gotten her texts from the night before; he had come home, after all. And she'd left a brief, affectionate note by the coffee maker.

She checked her watch one more time. If she waited, she'd probably end up waking him. Besides, if she left now, she just might be able to sneak into the Mildon before her ten o'clock class. The special collection didn't open until nine forty-five, but if Mr Griddlehaus were there – and if he were better disposed toward her this morning – she knew he'd let her in a few minutes before.

‘Maybe that's what Mr Grey meant,' she mused out loud as she shouldered her bag. At the very least, she could work on repairing that relationship, she decided, and headed out the door.

Leaving distracted as she did, she didn't see how Esmé had responded to her last words. Didn't see the little cat rise up on her hind legs and reach out with her mittens. As the door closed behind her, the little cat sank back down to the floor, a look of dejection on her sweet, furry face.

‘
She doesn't get it, does she?
' The voice, high and clear, was so soft as to barely stir the silent air.

‘
She will, little one,
' the other voice, deeper and full, replied. ‘
She's begun to feel the connections, and that is more than many can. Give her time, little one.
'

‘
But does she have time?
' the younger cat asked the empty air. And when no answer was forthcoming, she began to bathe.

B
y hurrying, Dulcie got to the library in record time. As she dashed up the wide stone steps, however, she realized that her slight breathlessness was not so much because of her speed as her nerves. Through her own carelessness, she had insulted the very person who had been most helpful to her. And it wasn't, she realized as she opened her bag for the guard to peruse, just that Griddlehaus had given her access to some of the collection's relevant rarities. The little clerk had become a friend, as well. Someone who understood her love of research and the written word, as Chris never would.

That thought gave her a twinge of guilt, but she brushed it off as she made her way to the elevator. She loved Chris, and he loved her, too, she repeated for reassurance. They might be going through a rough patch, and they might have different interests, but their hearts were joined. Perhaps, she mused as the elevator – empty this early – descended, that was what Mr Grey had meant.

Maybe this was a good thing, she thought, brisk walk and caffeine combining for an unusual bout of optimism. Maybe she should make the effort to expand her friendship with the library clerk. But as the elevator opened on the Mildon corridor, the combination of the overhead fluorescents and her own imagination got the better of her. Somehow, she couldn't see the fastidious clerk joining her crew for a pint at the People's Republik. Couldn't imagine having him over for dumplings from Mary Chung's either. Well, she thought with a sigh, at least I can return kindness with kindness, and let things progress as they may.

Unless they couldn't, that is. As she rounded the corridor to the special collections entrance, she saw the security gate still down and locked tight.

‘Mr Griddlehaus?' She knocked on the metal barrier and leaned in, the better to hear any scurrying within. ‘Are you there?' She knocked again. Her watch showed twenty of ten – still not officially opening time – but Dulcie had been at the Mildon often enough over the last few months to know that the gate would usually be up by now. And while other staffers might tow the line, keeping her out for another five minutes, her friend the chief clerk would usually let her in.

Unless, of course, they were no longer friends. ‘Mr Griddlehaus?' She tried again, rapping softly with her knuckles, and then louder, to get the attention of anyone inside.

‘He's not in yet.' A voice from further down the hall made Dulcie start, and she turned to see a beefier, younger man, probably a student, pushing a cart up to the closed elevator. ‘I usually see him in the mornings,' the chubby man said. ‘And I didn't today.'

‘Is everything alright?' Dulcie couldn't help it. The last few days suggested all sorts of horrible alternatives.

‘Why shouldn't it be?' The young man stood and looked at her, his face as round and red as a berry. ‘Do you know something?'

‘No, no.' Dulcie shook her head. ‘I just worry.' She tried a smile to soften her words. ‘He's a friend.'

‘Huh.' The round-faced man seemed unimpressed. ‘Well, I can't help you.' The elevator opened and without another word, he pushed the cart in and disappeared.

Unsure of what else to do, Dulcie waited another five minutes. By ten of, however, she had to face the inevitable. Mr Griddlehaus was not at his usual post, and nobody was going to open the Mildon, at least not in time for her to make her class.

As she hurried across the Yard, Dulcie couldn't help thinking about the library clerk. She knew very little about him. Only that he loved his job and took any slights on the collection personally. He had also, as far as she knew, never missed a day of work. On occasion, he had other staff scheduled, but it was a rare day that he did not also drop in, at least to open the collection. Still, for all their time together, she had never found out the most basic information about him.

Did Thomas Griddlehaus live alone or with someone? Did he have cats? For all Dulcie knew, he could be lying ill or injured somewhere, and she would have no idea how to find him.

When her phone rang, she grabbed for it. Maybe it was the little clerk, calling to explain. He'd been delayed by a missed bus, he'd tell her. Or maybe by a well-aimed hairball. But, no, she saw as she dug the cell from her bag. Still, this was almost as good.

‘Trista!' She kept walking, one eye on the Memorial Church clock. ‘I didn't think you'd be up so soon.'

‘Why?' Trista sounded puzzled. ‘Anyway, I'm on my way to a seminar, but I wanted to let you know. Something is up with your pretty-boy student, but I don't think it's what we thought.'

‘Huh?' Dulcie stopped walking, hoping that would make Trista's sense clearer. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Well, I was going to talk to that boy, Andrew, but I thought I'd ask around about him first. And guess what? He does work for the dean, but I'm thinking that in his off-hours, they were rivals, not colleagues, if you get my drift.'

‘Tris, I don't.' The church bells started. Dulcie's section would be gathering.

‘Well, the dean? I saw him at the Harvest, chatting up some woman. That's why I followed him to that dance club last night.' Dulcie wanted to ask her friend what she'd been doing at the pricey Square boîte. After all, the restaurant's bar was a notorious pick-up spot for the tenured set.

‘I dragged Jerry with me.' Trista must have sensed something in Dulcie's silence. Lucy, she knew, would have a different explanation. ‘I mean, sometimes I want to go to a place that can mix a Martini.'

Dulcie resisted the temptation to comment. Instead, she listened as the bells finished chiming the hour. She was definitely going to be late.

‘But when I saw Dean Mack Daddy, I knew I had to check him out. Dulcie, he was all over this woman. The good thing was, she looked age appropriate for him. I mean, she was old – like forty, at least. Though kind of nice looking.'

‘Tris . . .' Dulcie needed to get moving.

‘But what got me was, this guy wasn't acting like he'd just lost his lover, you know what I mean? I mean, everyone else I talk to says that he and Melinda were like this – and now he's already replaced her? Of course, he could be a psychopath.'

Dulcie didn't know when Trista's seminar started. She did know she needed to get moving. ‘So that's it? The dean has moved on?'

‘Well, or we read it all wrong. Because, well, I told you I was asking about Andrew?' Dulcie nodded. Trista didn't need any encouragement. ‘Well, it turns out he was asking about Melinda – talking to anyone who knew her back in the day. Doing some pretty sophisticated online searches about her, too, using the dean's all-university access.' Dulcie didn't want to ask how her friend had found out this particular tidbit. It sounded too close to what she herself had done. Besides, Trista was still talking. ‘I mean, deep stuff – family background, where she'd lived. It was like he'd made Melinda his pet project.'

‘Maybe the dean found out?' That could explain the student's appearance at the police station. ‘Maybe he got jealous?'

‘And killed Melinda?' Trista greeted someone, and Dulcie heard a door opening. ‘It's possible. He was definitely into her. But Dulcie, I'd take a serious look – a serious and careful look – at your handsome undergrad. I'm thinking Andrew was a stalker.'

‘D
ulcie, you can't.' Suze was adamant. ‘You cannot question Andrew Geisner. It would be more than inappropriate. It would . . . well, let's just say, it could make things worse.'

Dulcie had called her old friend as soon as she'd gotten off the phone. Suze and her boss had already warned her about continuing her own investigation when they'd dropped her off the night before. ‘Highly inadvisable,' had been the phrase Elizabeth Ventner had used. But Dulcie couldn't help but feel that now she had new information, a certain amount of poking about would be justified.

‘No.' Suze knew her well enough to anticipate the arguments Dulcie had begun to frame. ‘Under no circumstances. The cops called you in for questioning. You're a person of interest. They might charge you yet. Please, Dulcie, stay out of it.'

Dulcie had been suitably scared by the time they had rung off. However, she had not promised anything beyond the vague idea of ‘being sensible'. By now, she was definitely late, however, so when the phone rang again, she resisted. A glance down as she ran up the Emerson stairs showed her the caller was Lucy, and she switched the phone off as she made her way down the hall.

Thinking of her mother, Dulcie said a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess as she entered her section. Upperclassmen, a mix of sophomores and juniors, this small group was usually perfectly capable of entertaining itself for a few minutes. As she took her accustomed seat at the head of the table, she wondered if in fact her presence was necessary. The three women and two men were already deep in conversation about that week's reading: biographical material on the Victorian novelists.

‘I don't see the point of Strachey,' Tom, a lit major, was saying. ‘All we're getting is second-hand gossip.'

‘Don't be such a prig, Tom.' Jules liked to bait the self-important young man. ‘Strachey's a stylist. Reading him we get the essence of the era, boiled down to a few well-placed anecdotes.'

‘That's the problem,' Tom fired back, flipping his long golden hair off his shoulders. ‘Nothing in Strachey is boiled down. Ever. And with the reading I've got for the Victorian Novel? I cannot help but remember how many of these guys were paid by the word.'

Dulcie couldn't help smiling. She'd been doing this long enough that she could have anticipated this particular discussion. Part of the problem was timing. For some reason, she always landed the Tuesday section. Because the lecture was held on Wednesday, the day before tended to be tense, as the students hurried to catch up. Part of the problem was, she admitted, with Professor Baer. A throwback to the old school, Baer recited his lectures like they had been written in stone, pronouncing each syllable as if it contained some great weight. Add in a reading list that hadn't changed in at least half a century, and the result was deadly. Required, essentially, for any student who cared about nineteenth-century fiction. But dull as a bag of rocks.