Grey Expectations (20 page)

She put the bowl away. ‘I'm sure you would have.'

‘Dulcie, listen.' He reached for her hands. ‘Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Maybe someone has stolen your identity, but in a low-tech way. You know, old-fashioned.'

He thought that would do it. That he'd provided the spark of an idea that would lift her up. But she had been through too much. She shook her head sadly. ‘You're trying, Chris, and I appreciate it. But I checked. I have my university ID. It's in my bag.'

‘But—'

‘And besides, Chris, why would anyone? I'm just another broke student, researching a book nobody cares about in a field that has no value. My ID isn't worth anything to anybody.'

For a moment, there was silence. Chris seemed about to choke out a few words, but even he gave up. Instead, he leaned in to fold her in his arms. Within moments, Esmé had squeezed between them, mewing for attention. As Dulcie turned to look down at her, the little cat stood on her hind quarters, reaching up with white mittened paws.

‘Oh, kitty.' She picked the cat up and held her close, burying her face in the soft fur.

Chris held his breath. The young cat had never really showed a fondness for cuddling, preferring instead to play. And considering her predilection for biting, well, Chris hardly dared to move.

But instead of the expected tears, he soon heard a much more welcome sound. Dulcie was humming – to herself, to the cat – and the white paws, extended over Dulcie's shoulders, were kneading in pleasure, the pink toe pads grasping and flexing.

‘What a little love cat,' she said, when she finally looked up.

‘Yeah.' It was all he could think of to say.

‘And you know what?'

Chris shook his head.

‘I don't think she spoke to me, not exactly. But when she leaped into my arms, I got something from her.'

Chris waited, hoping.

‘I got, “Don't give up, Dulcie.”' She was beaming now. ‘“Don't give up.” And she's right, Chris. I can't just sit back and let myself be railroaded. I've got to figure out what's going on. I mean, I'm a trained researcher. That's got to count for something, doesn't it?'

‘Yes, it does.' Chris felt the tension drain away as the kitten nuzzled Dulcie's neck.

THIRTY-ONE

‘
F
irst, we've got to look at what we know. We may not be able to figure everything out from there, but we should at least be able to plan our next step.'

Dulcie was leaning over the kitchen table, which now held a yellow legal pad. The cat had accepted the move and now sat at one end of the table, opposite Chris, as the three looked at the rough diagram Dulcie was drawing.

‘This is what we know for sure.' She started numbering. ‘Topic one: Roland Galveston. Section A: he's missing. Probably still alive –' she paused – ‘we hope, but definitely not answering his phone. Section B: the English department thinks he is here under false pretenses.' She wrote
Identity?
under Roland's name and underlined it.

‘What do you know about this guy?' Chris leaned over and retrieved a pen that Esmé had started to bat.

‘Not much,' Dulcie admitted, tapping the paper. ‘Victorian, like Trista. But I don't know what his thesis was on –
is
on,' she corrected herself. ‘Or about his students or anything.'
Research/work
, she wrote, adding several question marks.

‘We'll come back to that. Topic two: the Dunster Codex is missing.' She gave the purloined text its own Roman numeral.

Chris interrupted. ‘Shouldn't Trista be second?'

Dulcie chewed on the end of her pen. ‘I don't know. We know she was shaken up about something, and we know that she's disappeared, but that's it.' She looked up at her boyfriend. ‘I know I should be worried about her, but for some reason, I'm not.'

‘No?' He looked more skeptical. Then again, he'd spent the morning trying to help out Trista's panicked boyfriend.

‘Maybe I'm just annoyed with her. Maybe I'll kick myself later. Right now, there's too much doubt about what was happening. I guess I just wouldn't be surprised to find out she'd gone to ground, you know? Still, something's going on. So, for Jerry's sake, anyway.' She crossed out
The Dunster Codex
and wrote in Trista's name. Underneath, she noted:
Under suspicion? Questioned?
And then, in all caps:
MISSING?

‘The Dunster Codex is third, then.' She wrote that down, with one notation –
Missing
– and paused. ‘Why would anyone take that?'

Chris looked perplexed. ‘Isn't it, like, the crown jewel of the rare book library?'

She nodded. ‘Yeah, but why steal it? Its value is scholarly, not monetary. I mean, someone couldn't just sell it on the open market.'

‘You don't know,' her boyfriend opined. ‘There are some crazy rich people out there.'

She nodded. ‘Our curator is one of them. I remember the fuss when the Codex was acquired. You'd have thought it was his first-born child or something.'

‘But he wouldn't—' Chris left the sentence open. ‘No, that's too crazy.'

‘Not entirely, Chris. If the Codex had been somewhere else and it had been stolen, then I would look at Gustav Coffin.'

‘Well, that's something, isn't it?' His pale face brightened somewhat.

Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, he already acts like the Mildon is his personal collection. If it had gone missing from some other college that would be a possibility. I swear, he'd have stolen it if he couldn't have bought it.'

‘I guess that's why he suspects all the grad students then.'

‘Unless it's just because we're the low people on the totem pole.' She stared at her outline. Something wasn't sitting right, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Finally, she jotted
Blue ticket.
‘OK, what else?'

‘The identity theft issue.' Chris almost didn't want to remind her. ‘Or, at least, the idea that detective – the fat guy? – warned you about it. That's got to figure into everything.'

‘Maybe, maybe not.' She gnawed on the pen some more. She looked at her list. ‘I don't know, Chris. When we talk about these things, they all seem so disconnected – OK, maybe not the rare book and Roland going missing. But the other stuff? Trista, murder, my name on that ledger? I'm seeing the same things over and over – someone or something has gone missing. Someone or something has been mistaken for someone else. But I'm not seeing how any of them fit together.' She circled the words
Blue ticket
and underlined them. ‘Except to frame me.'

‘Maybe they don't, Dulcie.' He paused, afraid to even say it. ‘Maybe we should just focus on your problem. On clearing your name, sweetie.'

She shook her head. ‘No, Chris. I'm not seeing it, but it's all connected. I just can't quite see how.' She stopped. ‘Am I sounding like Lucy?'

‘A little,' he said shyly. ‘But wait, let me take a look.' He turned the paper slightly toward him. They both sat in silence for a moment staring at it. Even Esmé seemed mesmerized. Then Chris pulled a mechanical pencil out of his pocket and began to draw.

‘In applied sciences, we're often trying to find patterns. See how things fit together.' He drew a line between
Blue ticket
and
Identity theft
. ‘Identify the unifying system, if you will. Sometimes, to do that, you have to try looking at all your information in a different light.'

He drew some more lines as she watched. ‘For example, if we apply a kind of roughshod version of game theory,' he said. ‘We'd be looking at trade-offs. Who would do what to optimize the situation.' He drew some lines and tilted the pad back so Dulcie could follow. ‘For instance, we can assume that you did
not
steal the Dunster Codex.'

She squeezed his leg under the table, but didn't comment.

‘So, Dulcie-to-blue ticket has to be someone else's play, right?'

‘Well, that would fit in with the identity theft, except that I haven't been hacked in any way. You've checked out my online stuff, and I have my ID cards.'

He was still staring at the lines. ‘Who else would benefit? Who has established the conditions for optimization?'

‘Well, somebody stole the Codex – and someone is setting me up for it.'

He tapped one of the lines. ‘Roland looks likeliest, doesn't he? Steals the thing, disappears, and somehow arranges to blame you.' He nodded. ‘I like him for it.'

She shook her head. ‘Nope. According to your rules, it doesn't make sense. He doesn't “optimize” anything. He's the obvious suspect. Plus, he's lost out on getting his degree. He was
this
close. Why would he do that for a one-time score?'

‘If it were worth millions?'

She shook her head sadly. ‘Thousands,' she said, breaking it to him. ‘And only to a certain small group of collectors.'

Her boyfriend visibly deflated. ‘That's the trouble with the theory. We have what we call imperfect information,' Chris concluded sadly. ‘I'm sorry. I guess that doesn't help at all.'

Beside them on the table, Esmé started to wash. Each wet tongue stroke slicked down a small area of fur, flatter and shinier than its neighbor until her pink tongue came through again, adding another damp patch to the overall black of her back. ‘No, it's a good idea,' said Dulcie, absent-mindedly. Watching the cat was making her think of something. The question was: what? ‘What do you call it when patterns repeat? Fractions, or something?'

He smiled. ‘Almost. Fractals – the larger patterns are reproduced even in the smallest parts.'

‘That's it, Chris.' Dulcie was staring at the paper. ‘We've got a bunch of parts. We just need to figure out the larger patterns.'

‘Unless—' He stopped himself.

Dulcie looked up. So did the kitten. ‘What?'

‘Unless these are not connected at all.' He put the pencil down and lifted his hands in surrender. ‘Maybe these are just random occurrences.'

‘That's chaos, right?'

‘That's one word for it,' he said as Esmé pounced, sending the pencil flying.

THIRTY-TWO

S
he woke to the pounding of hooves, the carriage horses in their haste striking sparks 'gainst the frozen ground. The noise hadn't woken her, though, dragged under by an exhaustion as thick as the fog that had shadow'd her early steps. 'Twas the hand, the touch of the stranger beside her, reaching rudely beneath her woolen cape. Searching for her purse, or to accost her person. Perhaps, she dared not think, to uncover the secret she held so close. Clutching the hem of her cape, she tore it from that noxious hand and turn'd away. None knew her here, none ever could. She had made her journey in darkness, without her name. She would not tear that veil of secrecy. She would not call out now.

Their attempts at outlining the problem should have been discouraging; their conclusions had been so  . . . inconclusive. But Dulcie woke energized. Maybe it was having Chris there. Maybe it was simply that she had hit bottom the day before, between the library and that essay. Whatever the reason, she bounced out of bed before the alarm went off, full of ideas.

‘Shh, Esmé, let's not wake him.' The cat looked similarly wide awake, and Dulcie felt a pang of regret as she tiptoed by her to the bathroom. ‘I can't play now. I'm sorry.'

The cat was still watching when she emerged and dressed, jumping up on the desk as she scrawled a note.
Going to talk to Thorpe. Touch base later
, it said. Theories were all well and good, but Dulcie hadn't gotten this far by applying abstract rules to her research.

‘Start with what you know,' she whispered to the cat as she reached for her sweater. ‘Then take it from there.'

The little cat watched as she left, jumping up to the window to follow her progress down the sidewalk.

‘
She's so brave,
' Esmé said, her quiet voice just carrying to the grey shadow who had appeared at her side. ‘
And so trusting.
'

‘
It's her great strength, little one. And her great weakness.
'

‘
But, what if she doesn't see—
'

Just then, Chris walked into the kitchen, Dulcie's note in his hand. He joined Esmé at the window, in time to see Dulcie's curls disappear beneath the new green leaves of a maple.

‘Good luck, sweetie,' he murmured, under his breath, his hand on the smooth black back of the cat, and then went off to shower.

‘
Mr Grey!
' The little tuxedo cat looked around, once she was alone. ‘
This is scary. What can I do to help?
'

‘
What we always do, little one.
'
The voice seemed to resonate out of no one place. ‘
We keep the home safe. She'll need that, once she returns.
'

Three blocks away, Dulcie heard none of this, although a certain satisfied warmth kept a bounce in her step. It must have been having Chris around – and getting a good night's sleep – she decided, which made today's course of action so obvious. Thorpe might not always respect her, but he trusted her. His actions yesterday, speaking up for her after the cellphone mishap, proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. She'd go to him and explain about the blue ticket, that there was no way she could have been in the Mildon the previous Friday. And she'd ask him to – well, not to intercede for her with Coffin, that would be asking too much of the skittish, balding man – but to advise her. That was, after all, his job.

And then? Her steps grew a little heavier as she considered the other topic she ought to bring up with Thorpe. That essay, the one from the blue volume  . . . . If she accepted the identification, and she had no reason to doubt it, then she had to acquiesce to the obvious conclusion. The author of
The Ravages of Umbria
was a fair-weather feminist. For whatever reason, she'd changed her tone here in the New World.