Shades of Grey (6 page)

But Luisa shook her head. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure. That’s what the cops were asking me about yesterday.’

‘The cops? Luisa, if you—’ Dulcie wanted to ask more, to find out if the dark-haired girl was a suspect. But just then she felt her empty glass whisked out of her hand.

‘Would you ladies care for anything else today?’ The moment was broken. Luisa pushed herself off her stool and reached for the bag that had been resting at her feet.

‘Here you go.’ She fished through the bulky knit bag for her wallet.

‘Luisa, if you want to talk—’

‘I should get back home. I’ve got a study group at six. It was just so good to see you. To see someone who knew Tim.’ With a smile and a wave, she was gone. Dulcie looked back at the counter, just in time to see the dollar bill before the barista grabbed it. Only someone who had worked in a service job would tip that much for an iced tea. With a sigh, she slid off her own stool and looked up to see that the Siamese fighting fish was no longer circling. Its little ‘o’ of a mouth still opened and closed rhythmically, but it held to the edge of the bowl, its black button eyes staring straight past her. Brass bells jangled and Dulcie glanced over her shoulder in time to see Luisa slip through the front door. Straightening up again, she saw that the fish’s banner of a dorsal was extended to its full height. The fish had been staring at the door – and if that fin was any indication, the bright-red fighter was either angry or scared.

‘Dulcie, I’m really beginning to worry about you.’ She’d told Suze about the cat earlier, and her friend had made sympathetic noises. Suze knew that most of Dulcie’s waking hours were spent in a fictional world where ghosts were part of the furniture, at least in the upper reaches of ruined castles. An intelligent fish, however, was going too far.

‘Look, I’m not saying that the fish knew something.’ Dulcie was lying on the sofa, feet tucked behind a pillow. The pillow didn’t fill the space where Mr Grey used to curl, but it was close. ‘Still, something spooked it.’

‘Like, maybe, being stuck in a tiny bowl in a busy coffee shop?’

Dulcie could hear the fatigue in Suze’s voice.

‘Dulcie, I think you’ve been spending too much time in that
Umbria
book, only you’re not locked up – you’re choosing to stay inside, alone. It’s not healthy. I mean, Dulce, we’re talking about a creature with a brain the size of a split pea at best.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Suze was working hard and the Washington summer was even hotter and muggier than New England. Still, Dulcie couldn’t resist. ‘And at times I do feel like Hermetria, or at least Demetria, the faithful attendant. But, Suze, I know what I saw. And, well, it’s possible, right? I mean, animals are sensitive in ways that we aren’t. And first that cat—’

‘Dulcie!’ Suze’s temper was fraying. ‘Get a hold of yourself! Your room-mate was murdered and you’ve just had coffee with a person of interest, and you’re thinking a fish was freaked?’

‘What do you mean, “a person of interest”?’ Dulcie sat up.

‘Well, think about it. The cops brought her in. She was involved with the deceased, probably sneaking around with him, and it sounds like maybe she wanted more. Wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to think she had something to do with Tim’s murder.’

Dulcie paused. She had wanted to ask Luisa about the police, but she’d looked so innocent and stricken. She kicked the pillow. ‘They let her go.’ She was playing devil’s advocate. But Suze was a real advocate in training.

‘Come on, kiddo.’ She could hear Suze sitting up, getting serious. ‘That only means they haven’t charged her. But Tim was just playing around with her, right? Wouldn’t that be motive?’

‘If she knew about it. She seemed to think that Tim really cared for her. I was thinking that Alana had more reason to be jealous. A woman scorned, and all that.’ In Dulcie’s mind, the younger girl was way more attractive, her story more romantic. Maybe she’d have won out in the end. Not that Tim was much of a prize.

‘You’re forgetting about the ring. If you were a young girl, wined, dined and seduced, and then you found out your knight in shining armor was about to propose to someone else, wouldn’t that make you mad?’

‘Yeah, but . . .’ Dulcie couldn’t really see either woman resorting to anything stronger than a good slap. Suze had a good case, in theory. But Suze hadn’t seen the blood. ‘Well, I don’t see it. She seems . . . innocent. Like a young novice who had the bad luck to be seduced by a caddish lordling.’ She heard Suze snort. Suze was not a fan of Gothic lit. ‘I like her.’

‘You feel
protective
of her.’

Suze had a point.

‘And you spend much of your time reading books in which innocent women are preyed upon by evil men. But you’re not her lawyer, and this isn’t a storybook. If you want to help this girl, next time you see her, don’t buy her coffee. Send her to legal aid.’

‘I didn’t buy her coffee.’ It was iced tea. ‘But I didn’t get a bad vibe off her, either.’

‘No, the fish did.’

Only after they hung up did Dulcie realize she hadn’t told Suze about the biggest potential break in the case: Tim’s dealing. With a stab of conscience, she realized why. Between Alana and her buddy coming by and Dulcie’s own desire to get out of the house, she hadn’t told anyone – not even the cops. And if her legal-minded friend would have said anything about Luke’s revelation, it would be that Dulcie should immediately inform the police. Well, it was Sunday night. Tomorrow, during her lunch break, she’d call the detective who had given her his card.

With a slight stab of guilt – she knew Suze was right – she settled in again. What was Sunday night for, if not a good book?

Six

What if the chill were the wind? A cold, mountain gale sweeping up into the mountains, where she, Dulcie, was held captive? What if the wind presaged the ghost of the heroine’s long-dead fiancé, Rabinovitz?

It was no good. The chill was the air-conditioning vent, blowing straight down on her cubicle, presaging nothing more than goosebumps. Dulcie shivered in her thin cotton dress. Three days away from her desk, and somebody had nicked her office sweater. It had been one of Lucy’s better efforts, too, only slightly lumpy, knitted from unbleached wool that she’d carded and spun herself. Best of all, it had been warm.

To add to Dulcie’s troubles, the temp agency hadn’t bothered to inform her supervisor at the insurance company about why she hadn’t been at work since last Tuesday, with the result that everybody seemed to regard her as a slacker. The agency would probably find her another mindless drone job if this one canned her. But it seemed that the powers-that-be at Priority Insurance were so desperate for help that instead they’d been piling up folders since Wednesday morning, only nobody could understand why she was so far behind.

Rabinovitz, Jacob R. Backspacing over a typo, she tried once more to concentrate on what she was doing. Accident reports, all of which came in scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting, and most of which, she suspected, would never amount to anything for the poor claimants.

Date of accident: March third. The day Jonah had told her about Summer, his new camera-toting love. She shook that memory off and looked at the claimant code. It was a 342, a motor vehicle accident. And the poor guy had been waiting more than four months already. With a twinge of guilt, Dulcie picked up another form.

Rabinovitz, Jacob S. Also a 342, as were the next five forms. The guilt was fading. The company could have assigned these forms to a regular employee or brought in temp help earlier. She’d only been out since last week.

Rabinovitz, Jacopo. That opened her eyes but, hey, she was Dulcie Schwartz, full name Dulcinea, thanks to Lucy’s half-remembered role in a college production of
Man of La Mancha
. And who was Dulcinea Schwartz to question Jacopo Rabinovitz? Another code 342. Dulcie shivered, both from the arctic air and the eerie sense of
déjà vu
that kept creeping up on her. Maybe it was that date, with its personal memories, but she feared code 342 would haunt her dreams. She stood up and stretched, trying to see into the other cubicles. Maybe whoever had ‘borrowed’ her sweater still had it here. She looked over to where the office manager, Lily, sat. Something about her nubbly beige top looked familiar. Of course, Lily was a nubbly beige woman. But still . . .

Then it hit her. Jacopo Rabinovitz? March third? Not a date or a name she was likely to forget. Hadn’t she typed his form in last Monday? Could there really be two Jacopo Rabinovitzes who’d had fender benders during the last ice storm of the spring, the night Summer had eclipsed Dulcie?

Dulcie raised her voice slightly. ‘Hey, Joanie?’

The kohl-rimmed eyes of the other temp poked around the grey cubicle wall. ‘She speaks!’ Black lips broke into a smile. ‘Hey, you wanna take a break? I’m dying for a ciggie.’

From the way she was bobbing, Dulcie could see that the modern-day Goth girl was jonesing. ‘In five. But first, what’s with these claim forms? I swear I’ve typed some of these in before.’

‘Shh! C’mere.’ Joanie beckoned with nails polished to match her lips. Dulcie slid her chair closer to the partition. ‘We
are
retyping them, a whole bunch. I don’t know the whole story, but last week, during one of those thunderstorms, I was in the smoking room with Ricky. You know, the cute redhead with the freckles, over in Accounting?’

Dulcie couldn’t imagine anyone here being cute, but nodded anyway.

‘Anyway, he said something about a bug.’

Without thinking, Dulcie lifted her feet off the grimy carpet.

‘A computer bug, silly. But he said it’s all hush-hush for some reason. Anyway, I’m happy; I wasn’t supposed to be here this week. Though, I guess with you out – hey!’ Her grey eyes lit up, wide and innocent despite all the warpaint. ‘Did you really, you know, find a body?’

‘Yeah, my room-mate.’ Dulcie was heartily sick of talking about it. But Joanie was as close to a friend as she had here. ‘He’d been stabbed.’

‘Gross!’ Joanie beamed. ‘I mean, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He was an ass.’ It felt good to say it. ‘A total preppie creep.’

‘I know the type.’ Joanie was nodding. ‘I went to Milton. So, wanna take a break?’

Fifteen minutes later, Dulcie was sweating and ready to return to the chilled office. Besides, she really shouldn’t push her supervisor. Joanie, however, had other plans.

‘Let me finish this butt, then I’ve gotta go to the corner for another pack and a Red Bull. I was at this party last night—’

‘I’ll catch you inside.’ Dulcie waved off her raven-haired colleague and leaned into the glass revolving doors. The cool was lovely here in the lobby, not blasting, just the perfect corporate chill.

‘Excuse me.’ It sounded like a command, and Dulcie stumbled forward as a woman brushed past, her heels clicking on the polished lobby floor.

‘Hey!’ Dulcie had paused right inside the doors, but that was no reason for such rudeness.

‘Yes?’ It was Mrs Putnam, the human resources manager – Sally Ann Putnam, if Joanie was to be believed. It was a name that belonged on a farm girl, although the tart-tongued Goth girl preferred to call her ‘the Snake’. And as was true every time she appeared, since that morning she’d first given Dulcie the once-over and then a company log-on, the HR boss was a vision in perfectly polished and undoubtedly expensive neutrals. Maybe it was the coloring, the way her frosted bob was just a shade lighter than her deeply tanned skin, or maybe it was her cold, flat eyes, but something about her did in fact remind Dulcie of a copperhead snake she’d seen once, sunning on a rock. Maybe it was the job; thinking of people as ‘resources’ could not be good for the soul.

‘Um, excuse me? Mrs Putnam?’ Whatever she thought of the HR head, Dulcie needed the gig and made herself blink away the image of the reptile. The opportunity, however, was too good to waste. ‘I was wondering about the data we’re working on now? A lot of the forms have been entered before. I’m sure of it.’ A perfectly manicured eyebrow arched, and Dulcie remembered Joanie’s warning. ‘I mean, maybe there was an announcement while I was out?’

‘There was no announcement to any of the clerical staff. Not even to our
regular
staff,’ sniffed the older woman, tossing back her head. Her hair didn’t move, and Dulcie half expected a slim dark tongue to flash out. Instead, the older woman kept on hissing. ‘You’re being well paid for your labors. I’d advise you to concentrate more on the quality of your work, and less on details that don’t concern you.’

With that Mrs Putnam spun on one slick leather toe and click-clacked off to the elevators, her posture, like her unbleached linen suit, perfect. It was only as she paused for the small crowd at the elevator to part for her that Dulcie noticed what was on her arm. Over the leather strap of a simple fawn handbag was a neatly folded sweater. It looked like raw wool, it was nubbly, and it was hers.

Not until Joanie slammed her desk drawer shut did Dulcie realize it was five p.m. Another day gone. Joanie was already shoving her iPod into her bag as Dulcie stood and stretched.

‘I don’t know how you can work and listen to music.’ She shook her head to clear it and realized how long her curls were getting. ‘I’d end up typing lyrics.’

‘I don’t know how you keep your sanity without it.’ Joanie shouldered her black and green messenger bag, and stood, waiting for Dulcie. ‘I mean, I know you’re quiet and all.’

‘I just sort of drift. I daydream, I guess.’ She’d been trying to think about her reading, about Hermetria locked in her forlorn castle with only Demetria, who, to be honest, seemed a bit of a drip. But as the day had dragged on, she’d found herself thinking of Luke instead.

‘Not Ricky over in Accounting?’ Joanie must have seen something in her face.

‘Don’t worry.’ Dulcie grabbed her own bag and followed the black-clad girl toward the elevators. ‘My room-mate’s brother, actually.’