Grey Expectations (2 page)

She'd given herself the weekend off after that, but was determined to apply that same discipline to her next bit of research. Admittedly, Monday had been a bit of a waste. It was hard to change streams, she told herself, from writing to researching once again. But now it was time to put her money where her mouth was. Or, to be somewhat more accurate, to put her eyes where her ideas were. With another sigh and a quick glance around – the kitten still had not returned – she resigned herself to the inevitable. She picked up the bound volume and opened it.

Two pages in, she found her eyes growing heavy again. Out of three hundred pages, she had – she flicked through the bound volume – two-hundred eighty left. For a fleeting moment, Dulcie admitted just how grateful she had been for the kitten's violent interruption. And, as if she had picked up on some silent cue, Esmé suddenly appeared again, standing on her round haunches to bat at the air.

‘You know you're not supposed to play like that, kitty.' Dulcie smiled at the sight of the little cat, white belly exposed as she reared up. But she resisted the urge to shadow-box with the cat. ‘You know that.'

Esmé tilted her head to look up at her, and for a moment, Dulcie was sure the little tuxedo cat understood her. There were always signs. After all, Esmé had last attacked when Dulcie had been sleeping – and she should have been working. Not to mention that she'd been in a most distressing part of the recurring dream. And now, here the little cat was again, just when Dulcie had been thinking of her. Was Esmé psychic? Dulcie toyed with the idea – and then dismissed it. The little tuxedo cat might not have quite the communicative powers of her predecessor, the late great longhair Mr Grey, but she had revealed an ability to communicate telepathically on occasion. Still that was only when Esmé – short for Her Most Royal Principessa Esmeralda – wanted to make herself heard. Not particularly in response to any cue she had picked up from Dulcie. As much as Dulcie might have hoped the little tuxedo cat would grow into a more empathic pet, it was infinitely more likely that the cat was responding to something more prosaic. Both times, in some subtle, unconscious way, she had probably given the little beast a signal that she was available for play.

Esmé demanded Dulcie's attention when she wanted it, Dulcie realized, nursing her hand. And only when it served her purpose.

‘Sometimes I feel like you can talk, when you want to.' Dulcie got up to wash her hand. Telepathic or not, Esmé could bite. ‘Listening, however, is a whole different story.'

‘Why does she talk like that to me?'
While Dulcie hummed to herself in the bathroom, the tuxedo cat watched, wondering.
‘Doesn't she know that I'm only doing my job?'

Over the humming and the gurgle of the tap, Dulcie didn't hear the series of small peeps and squeaks that were the kitten's preferred method of communication. A strange sense of well-being came over her, however, as another voice responded. She didn't hear it – only Esmé did – but as she dried her hands and thought, once more, about the tasks of the day, they all seemed feasible somehow, as if she might just get everything done. Once again, all seemed right with the world.

‘
She doesn't mean to be difficult, little one
,'
the other voice purred into a set of fuzzy black ears. ‘
She has great trials coming up, and she will need you – and appreciate your efforts – then.
'

TWO

B
y the time the sun had begun to sink, the warm feeling had faded, replaced by the kind of mind-numbing boredom that would have made the intrusion of feline fangs welcome. However, Esmé was napping by then, her white nose tucked neatly beneath her black tuft of a tail, right in the center of Dulcie's desk.

‘What is it about cats and paper?' Dulcie mused. One green eye opened, but the little cat knew better than to venture an answer. She might have known one wasn't necessary, for just then, the front door slammed open, knocking into the wall. And although cats are supposed to be averse to loud noises, the commotion drew the attention of the little beast, who rose in a flash and scampered off toward the tall and lanky young man who stepped in.

‘I'm home!' Chris announced, redundantly. ‘And I've got dumplings!'

Dulcie rose a little more slowly and went to greet her boyfriend. He was a dear, and she knew those dumplings – from Mary Chung's, if she wasn't mistaken – were a peace offering. Since moving in together two months before, they'd discovered some unpleasant differences. While their tolerance for bookish mess was fairly equal, for example, Dulcie had found herself washing a sink's worth of old and crusty dishes a few times too often. And while Dulcie didn't consider herself a girly girl by any means – her upbringing on an Oregon commune hadn't included training in lipstick or flirting – her love for long, hot showers had made Chris late for class more than once. Plus, it was likely Chris's rough-housing that had made the kitten so wild. A cat, Dulcie had told him more than once, is not a dog.

As the semester wound down, however, they'd both found themselves laughing more than they grumbled. And Tuesday-night dumplings – eaten with recyclable chopsticks – were one of their new traditions. And so she greeted him with a kiss, taking the takeout bag into the kitchen as he shed his jacket and backpack. Placing it on the counter, she opened it. Dumplings
and
 . . . she took out a plastic container of spicy soup.

‘Yes!' she called out, knowing Chris would understand. This wasn't just for his benefit, however, and with a little more bounce in her step, she quickly gathered the bowls and utensils necessary for their feast. Those pamphlets would go down a lot easier after some
suan la chow show
.

It was with a sinking feeling, then, that Dulcie heard the phone ring. Halfway to the living room, she had bowls in one hand, the takeout bag in the other.

‘Chris?' she called. Their phone tended to migrate from the living room to the bedroom.

‘Sorry!' he yelled back, and Dulcie heard water running.

Abandoning – for now – their meal, she went in search of the errant phone, finding it just as her boyfriend emerged from the bathroom. She smiled up at him as she reached for it. He'd washed his face, and his bangs were sticking up, making him look more than ever like an overgrown Dennis the Menace.

That smile disappeared when she picked up the receiver. There was nobody on the line. The phone was silent. ‘Hello?
Hello
?'

Chris looked at her, concern shadowing his face.

Dulcie shrugged. ‘Prank?' She mouthed the word silently, then tried once more. ‘Is anybody there?'

She was about to hang up when a sudden sob broke the silence.

‘Hello?' Dulcie stood up and, waving Chris off, took the phone into the kitchen. ‘Who's there? Can I help you?' At times of stress, even a doctoral candidate's grammar might slip.

‘It's me.' The voice, thickened by tears, belonged to her buddy and classmate, Trista. ‘I didn't know who else to call.'

‘Trista! Where are you?' Dulcie had never heard her friend so upset. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I'm in trouble, Dulcie. Big trouble.' Trista was usually the tough one of Dulcie's crew; a Victorian specialist with a very contemporary edge. Right now, though, her friend's voice sounded strangled, as if she'd been crying – or worse.

‘The cops think I murdered Roland Galveston.'

THREE

F
ifteen minutes later, Dulcie was eating cold dumplings and barely tasting them.

‘Why did she call you, anyway?' Chris had finished his share and for the first time ever hadn't immediately gotten out the ice cream. Instead, he was sitting opposite her at their kitchen table, absently petting the kitten on his lap – and grilling Dulcie. ‘I mean, you're not a lawyer. You're not her mother.'

‘I'm her friend, Chris.' Dulcie felt her throat threatening to close up, and she put down the rather leathery dumpling. ‘And this is – this is horrible. Roland was one of us – and he's gone. Murdered, she said.' She swallowed, hard. ‘Dead.' It came out as a whisper.

‘I'm sorry, sweetie. That's awful.' Chris must have heard the tears welling up in Dulcie's voice, and he abandoned Esmé to wrap his arms around his girlfriend. ‘Did you know him well?'

Dulcie shook her head. ‘He hasn't been here that long. Hadn't.' The tense got to her, and she bit her lip. ‘And to think that
they
think that Trista  . . .' She shook her head. ‘She's scared, Chris. I could hear it.'

‘I believe you, Dulce. And I know you care about her. I just meant, well, haven't you had enough going on? This is terrible, I know, but if she's in trouble – couldn't she find someone else to call?'

Dulcie leaned back against her boyfriend with a sigh. He had never met Roland; he couldn't entirely understand. And he liked Trista, she knew that. Plus, Trista's boyfriend was his best friend and former room-mate. He was only being protective – and with reason. Not only was Dulcie in the middle of her thesis, she'd only recently recovered from a crisis with one of her students.

‘It's just that  . . .' Chris let his protest trail off. He didn't have to finish it. Dulcie knew what he meant. After the turmoil of the previous months, she was still a little off her game; the way those tears had sprung up so fast only proved that she hadn't yet recovered her normal resilience.

‘I want you to take care of yourself first,' Chris blurted out.

Dulcie nodded and looked down to see Esmé's green eyes staring up at her. Maybe the kitten was hoping for treats, but Dulcie suspected something bigger. Something about those eyes – which as the kitten had matured had become the same color as Mr Grey's – gave her courage. She began reciting the facts.

‘I know, Chris, but Trista is my friend. I have experience with the police. I know the ins and outs of, well, of the local justice system and the law school's legal aid program. And –' she swallowed – ‘I've also been accused of murder.'

‘Exactly,' he murmured into her curls, but she had a sneaking feeling he, too, was looking at the kitten.

‘All the more reason for me to help her.' Dulcie twisted around to peer up at her beau. Now that she had a project to focus on, her eyes were clear and dry. ‘Roland is – well, I can't do anything for him now. But Tris isn't a murderer, any more than you or I.'

With that, the kitten landed on the table, knocking over the dipping sauce and putting the conversation to an end.

Dulcie knew what she had to do, even if Chris didn't want to let it – or her – go. ‘Sweetie, let me walk with you at least.' He was finishing the clean-up as Dulcie donned her sweater. ‘I've got to be in the computer lab by nine, anyway.'

Dulcie glanced at the clock. ‘You just got home, Chris. Take some time for yourself.' That wasn't the issue, and she knew it.

Chris sputtered a bit, and then confirmed her suspicion. ‘But Dulce, Trista's all the way in the Square.'

Dulcie would have given him a look –
the
look, as he'd named it, the one that ended all discussion – only she had to concentrate on the buttons. Her oatmeal-colored sweater, one of her mother's more creative efforts, had become a favorite as the New England spring began to thaw the city, its nubbly texture making up for the fact that its buttons didn't quite match up. When she was done, she looked up at her boyfriend. ‘Chris. I walk it every day. Besides, it's still light out.'

He had no rebuttal to that, but he looked so miserable that Dulcie went over and kissed him again. ‘It'll be OK. I promise. Besides –' she headed toward the door – ‘I'm just a bystander this time. What trouble can I get into?'

As the door closed behind her, Dulcie heard a crash and then Chris's voice calling the kitten's name, frustration if not anger tightening his voice. ‘At least it isn't just me,' she said to herself as she headed off into the twilight.

Chris's apartment – hers too for the last few months – lay in the bottom of Cambridgeport, an old neighborhood tucked into a bend of the Charles River. Once heavily industrial, a remnant of the college town's blue-collar roots, the area was now largely residential, and as Dulcie walked by the former factories-turned-lofts and into an area of single-family houses, it occurred to her that she could almost forget that she was in a city. That, she suspected, was what Chris had been worried about. Quiet as it was, Cambridgeport still had an urban crime rate, and for all she knew, her colleague's death could have been the result of random street crime. It was hard to be nervous, however, when she could smell someone's lilacs in the cool, damp air.

As she walked, she tried to make sense of what her friend had told her. Roland Galveston wasn't someone she knew well, but she certainly knew
of
him. The young scholar had come from Vanderbilt on a one-year fellowship, and Dulcie, along with everyone else in her department, had gone to hear his fellowship-mandated talk. Roland's specialty wasn't hers; he focused on the late Victorians, who had always seemed somewhat overwritten and, if she thought about it, constipated, compared to her own late-eighteenth-century writers. Still, he'd been a colleague – a young man of promise. To think of him gone, as dead – murdered – sent a chill down her spine. She wrapped her sweater a bit tighter and tried to focus, instead, on the problem at hand.

Her area of expertise – the great Gothic novelists of the 1790s – might not get the attention of the Victorians, but it didn't have the rivalries either. And while Roland's fellowship had come with some kind of cushy research job, she was out there teaching – spreading the word about her author. Crossing Brookline Street to walk on the sunny side, Dulcie relaxed a little and mulled over Trista's words. Why would anyone want to kill Roland – and why would anyone suspect Trista? Galveston was a rising star. Of course, he'd have enemies. But murderous ones? Rivalries existed in the department. They always did, and the recent budget crunch hadn't made things any easier. But people dealt with them in civilized ways. Back-stabbing was metaphorical at the university, and even at the worst of times it would not amount to more than some ill-founded rumor or perhaps a nasty anonymous note.