Shades of Grey

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon

  CATTERY ROW

  CRIES AND WHISKERS

  MEW IS FOR MURDER

  SHADES OF GREY

  Clea Simon

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2009

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2009 by Clea Simon.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Simon, Clea.

  Shades of Grey

  1.Women graduate students – Fiction 2. Animal

  Ghosts – Fiction 3. Gothic novels – Fiction

  4. Murder – Fiction 5. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  813.6-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-259-7 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6781-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-153-9 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Jon

  Acknowledgments

  Many people had a hand in helping Dulcie Schwartz into the world. For their assistance with this new series, as well as with many previous projects, I would like to thank my readers Naomi Yang, Caroline Leavitt, Brett Milano, Chris Mesarch, Lisa Susser, Vicki Croke, Karen Schlosberg, and Michelle Jaeger. Ann Porter, Iris Simon, Frank Garelick, Lisa Jones, and Sophie Garelick have been tireless cheerleaders, and Colleen Mohyde of the Doe Coover Agency is everything one could want in an agent. Thanks, of course, to Amanda Stewart and the staff at Severn House, for recognizing Dulcie’s charms and helping to polish them. Jon S. Garelick has read this manuscript more times than I thought possible, and improved it every time. Thank you, love. Thank you, all.

  One

  ‘The carving knife was the last straw.’

  Stomping along the steaming sidewalk, her mood matching the thunder clouds overhead, Dulcie knew that the sentence made no logical sense. How could a knife be a straw? She could hear herself asking her students such a question, her usual wry smile softening the criticism as she urged them back on the metaphorical track.

  But as she trudged toward the apartment she shared for the summer, increasingly unwillingly, with Tim, she couldn’t stop the grammatical train wreck of her thoughts.

  She sighed and paused for a moment, looking around at the other drones on the street. How did they do it, day after day? A man in a suit passed her. At least he’d been able to shed his jacket, which now hung over his shoulder. No such relief for Dulcie. Pantyhose in July ought to be illegal. Had last summer been so muggy and dense?

  Thirty minutes ago she’d been shivering, trapped in the recycled cold of the overly air-conditioned Priority Insurance office, like a bug in some global version of ‘contrast and compare’. She shouldn’t be temping; shouldn’t have been in that soulless place at all. Insurance. Bah! It was all numbers juggling, all about profits and odds; nothing that actually affected people. She should have been in the pleasingly cool depths of Widener Library, lost in the fogs of the northern moors. Or perhaps on a night voyage across the Carpathians in a horse-drawn carriage. At the very least, she should have her thesis topic by now. According to the terms of her biggest grant, she should be writing already. But right before the holiday break, she’d heard that summer school enrollment was down. And that meant that her teaching section was canceled. No ‘Nightmare Imagery in the Early British Novel’, and by then it was too late to grab a section of the basic required survey course, English 10, the bane of freshmen and the salvation of starving grad students. It was too late to back out of the summer sublet that had allowed Tim into her home. And although she hadn’t known it at the time, it was too late for Mr Grey.

  Thoughts of her late, great cat made her stop again in the street. Mr Grey had been a stray, full-grown and sleek, when she’d found him during her freshman year. He’d been so skinny at the end, though, right after Memorial Day, the ribs obvious beneath his silky grey fur. Even before the vet told her, she knew it was the end of the line for the big cat. Still, she’d tried everything. And now, even though the vet was being super sweet about the bills, she was hundreds of dollars in debt, with no real job, and a room-mate who teased her about her still-raw grief.

  That was bad enough, but then Tim had taken her knife. One of her few good cooking utensils, along with a cast-iron pan and a two-quart pot that always cleaned up well, no matter how burned, the knife had been her mother’s second best. She’d found it, just as she’d found her Wheeler Latin grammar, her new iPod earbuds, and most of her vintage soul collection, in Suze’s room – Tim’s room as it would be until Labor Day. She’d gone in to close the window during one of the summer’s many thunderstorms and found it on the carpet, coated with some dried-on grime, its edge knicked and the point slightly bent. When he’d gotten in, hours after the rain had come and gone, Tim had given her some vague excuse. Something about the window screen getting stuck and how the insulation she and Suze had put in the winter before was really a health hazard. In other words, he had implied the whole thing was her fault. It was after two by then, and Dulcie had been half asleep – and too distracted thinking about what use he’d made of her Barry White CDs to listen to details. There’d been no point. Timothy S. Worthington was a walking entitlement – the ‘S’ standing for yet another Harvard building funded by one of his ancestors – and she knew she’d never get a straight answer out of him. The knife was damaged, possibly ruined. It had been the last straw.

  A car honked, swinging around the corner as if driven by demons, and Dulcie jumped back. How she missed Mr Grey! He’d always seemed to understand her moods, coming up with a catnip mouse when she needed
distraction; sleeping quietly by her feet when she was reading or grading papers. She’d called Suze almost every night those last few weeks, and even though her friend was starting her internship with a hotshot judge, Suze had listened. Only after the latest bill came, and her mother confided in her usual dithering way that she needed a loan to keep her own power on, had Dulcie cut back. And now she was stranded, alone, and temping in downtown insurance offices until September.

  The knife, as Tim would never understand, was more than a utensil. When poor old Lucy Schwartz had packed up her daughter to send her back East, she’d been at a loss as to what practical things Dulcie would need. She had spent too many years on the commune, as Dulcie still thought of the arts colony, and perhaps there had also been too many psychedelic mind excursions as well. But along with an oversized quilt, eight sweaters all hand-knitted into various shapes, and her own Riverside Shakespeare, the one-time hippie had pulled the second best of everything from her small kitchen. ‘Give me a penny for luck, dear,’ she’d insisted as she’d wrapped the long knife in newspaper for packing. ‘If you don’t “buy” it from me, it may end up hurting you.’

  So Dulcie had given her mother a penny, and hadn’t looked back. Leaving the Oregon forests for the university-centered metropolis, she had found she loved the city’s bustle and diversity. Everything was businesslike here. Even her reading now had order, strengthened by the discipline of academia. And when Dulcie had discovered Gothic literature, which set its wildest imaginings against the strict conventions of the eighteenth-century novel, she knew she’d found her niche. It wouldn’t hurt if her dissertation was on something that might actually get her a teaching gig, something hot like ‘Conventions of Morality in Nineteenth-Century Clerical Verse’ or ‘Beyond the Metaphor: Physics and Metaphysics in Science Fiction’s Golden Age’. But she’d worry about the job market later. What she really needed – and soon – was a topic; that, and a few good friends, her cat, and some decent kitchenware.

  Instead, she had Tim. Rounding the corner, at last, on to her block, she felt the first drop of rain. Great. But maybe if it really poured, the heat would break. Another drop. She sped up – increasing the pain of those God-awful heels. Maybe she’d treat herself to a good cry. Tim was rarely home in the early evening; the habits that had him sleeping in while she got ready for work and out by the time she arrived home were her favorite of his traits. A third drop hit her face. She definitely needed a good cry. She knew she wasn’t up to any more teasing. One more ‘it’s just a cat’ comment would lay her out. But if Tim were true to form, she would have the apartment to herself. She could collapse on to her bed in her tiny room, at the back of the top floor, that she thought of as her garret. The weather was certainly cooperating. But as she crossed the street, she was startled to see a cat on the front stoop leading up to her front door. A long-haired grey who looked startlingly like Mr Grey.

  I wouldn’t go in, if I were you. Dulcie spun around. The voice had seemed to be immediately behind her, calm and deep and right by her ear. But as she peered down the street, she couldn’t see anybody there.

  I know it’s about to pour, but why don’t you hit that coffee place with the good muffins instead? There was nobody behind her. The street was deserted. Was she hearing voices now?

  Just good advice. That’s all. The cat on the middle step was washing its face, carefully licking its left paw and then running it over each ear in turn.

  ‘Mr Grey?’ It made no sense. The cat kept washing, straining sideways now to get its tongue into the thick grey ruff.

  Dulcie closed her eyes. The heat, grief, and these damned pantyhose. She was losing it. When she dared to look again, the cat was gone. Undoubtedly, it was a neighborhood cat, a lovely grey she’d never noticed before. Undoubtedly, it had fled the rain. Climbing the stairs, she reached for the key and noticed that the white front door was ajar.

  ‘Good work, Tim.’ At least, she no longer had to worry about Mr Grey getting out. She pushed the door further open and started up the steep stairs that led from the pint-sized entryway up to her second-floor living room. God, she was wiped. For a moment, she paused and thought again of Mr Grey. He’d always met her at the front door, his plume of a tail leading the way in.

  ‘Mr Grey, I miss you,’ she couldn’t resist saying out loud. Immediately, she regretted it. What would her jerk room-mate say if he’d heard?

  ‘Tim, are you there?’ She hiked up the stairs, desperate to shed the pantyhose. If Suze had still been living with her, or any woman for that matter, Dulcie would have started to peel them off as soon as she walked in the door.

  Over the top stair, she could see a large dark spot on the industrial tan rug, reaching from behind the sofa into the middle of the carpet. Great. Dulcie and Suze had lived in this apartment close to four years, but only in the past two months with Tim had the place begun to show its age. She closed her eyes. ‘Tim?’ She was going to have to say something. Not that it would do any good. ‘Tim!’

  With that yell, she made it up the last two stairs and looked around. The spot was huge, a wet-looking stain that seemed to be spreading still. And inside the dark spot was something white, like a fleshy spider. Something that looked very much like a hand. Taking two steps forward, she peeked behind the sofa’s raised and padded side, to see that the fleshy spider was indeed a hand, and that it was attached to an arm that extended out of a familiar ‘Beer Good!’ T-shirt. Dulcie blinked, not believing what was before her. Cat or no cat, pantyhose or not, Tim was beyond teasing her now. Instead, he was lying on his back by the sofa on the living room rug, with her mother’s second-best carving knife in his chest.

  Two

  Dulcie couldn’t move. For several long moments the day, the heat, even her pantyhose were forgotten as she stood there staring. The blade, still shiny in spots, and the black wooden handle, always a bitch to clean, held her like a magnet. The edges of the room began to dim.

  Then, suddenly, to her right, she saw a flash of movement – of grey fur – and she turned. That cat! How had it gotten by her? She took a step toward the kitchen, the spell broken.

  ‘Kitty! Where are you?’ Was she speaking? No, though she had half formed the words, meaning to chase the stray down the steps, the voice she’d heard was in her own head. Still, had she heard something?

  Dulcie, please, go back outside. Go outside and call 911. She was losing it; that much was clear. I did try to warn you, you know. Stepping back, her eyes averted from the still, lifeless form on the living room floor, she hastily descended the stairs and closed the door behind her. The rain had begun in earnest, big fat drops that kicked up the dust on the sidewalk and street. The wet felt good, soaking through her thin summer dress.

  She should call the police. She should notify someone. But when she reached for her bag, she realized she’d dropped it, inside. She looked up at her own front door. No, she didn’t need any eerie voices to tell her not to go back into the apartment. Her neighbors, though, they were an option. As thunder began to rumble she ran down her stoop and began banging on the door of the first-floor apartment. Helene, still in her nurse’s uniform, answered.

  ‘Dulcie, what’s wrong?’ Helene’s broad, dark face immediately assumed a look of professional concern, and Dulcie realized that the wet on her cheeks came from tears as well as rain.

  ‘It’s Tim.’ Dulcie gasped for breath.

  Helene ran a hand over her short, cropped curls and rolled her eyes.

  ‘That full-of-himself frat boy done something again?’

  ‘He’s not— He wasn’t—’ The sky rumbled and Helene reached out to pull the younger woman inside. Dulcie shook her off. ‘It’s— He’s—’ A crack of thunder burst the air and both of them jumped. Dulcie was crying in earnest now, desperate to get the words out.

  Helene was staring at her, puzzled, maybe a little annoyed. She’d have worked a long day, too. Dulcie closed her eyes and saw a pair of feline green eyes staring back. Focus was the key. She took a br
eath.

  ‘It is Tim, Helene.’ She opened her eyes, her mind clearing. ‘But not what you think. I came home and the door was open, and Tim was just lying there, Helene. He’s lying on my living room carpet, and I’m pretty sure he’s dead.’

  Two hours later, Dulcie was sipping sweet, hot tea liberally laced with rum. It wasn’t a cocktail she’d ever have thought of, but sitting on Helene’s sofa, wrapped in a blanket, it surely hit the spot.

  The police had taken over her apartment, she remembered that. After the sudden storm, she and Helene and a growing crowd of neighbors had waited outside as the lights flashed and uniforms scurried about. They’d had plenty of questions for her, too, particularly the portly older detective who seemed to be in charge. What had she seen? Had she touched anything? Dulcie had been over and over her horrible homecoming so many times, she could no longer tell what had actually happened: the man she had seen on the street – he’d probably been walking from the T, same as her; the car that had sped by; the voice she was sure she’d heard – no, that bit she kept to herself. No need to have any of them thinking she was nuttier than she was. But she did tell the stout detective that the door had been open, and that she must have dropped her bag.

  ‘You saw your room-mate lying on the floor, and you continued into the apartment?’ He ran his hand back through what remained of greasy black hair. ‘Toward the kitchen?’

  ‘Well, no. Not really.’ She remembered turning away from the body, but not what she’d been planning to do. Had she been going to proceed through the kitchen and upstairs to her room? Ignore the body in the living room? That’s when it hit her: she’d seen the cat again, the grey long-hair who must have followed her in. She’d turned toward the running cat, and he’d told her to get out of the apartment. She was sure of it. She’d tried to explain to the detective then; tried to tell the older man about the strange voice she was hearing – a voice she’d never heard before but that seemed to be coming from the cat. She’d told him that she’d seen it pass by her, and that its movement – a blur of silver fur – had broken her out of her stupor, finally gotten her to move. He’d tut-tutted and ‘there there’d’ her. Clearly, he thought she was nuts. Ah, well, at least at that point, he’d decided to release her into Helene’s care.