Grey Expectations (23 page)

Despite herself, Dulcie sympathized. She'd also, by this point, swallowed. ‘So, when Trista found out the truth  . . .' It was, she knew from crime novels, what would be called a leading question.

He nodded, face still glum. ‘Yeah, she was pretty disappointed in me.' The gamble had paid off. ‘She really felt bad, because she'd been trying to do me a solid.'

‘Oh?' Dulcie took another bite. The theory, she knew, was to offer as little as possible. Besides, she was hungry.

‘The Rattigan Prize? When she was notified, as a qualification, they asked her to recommend other scholars. I can't imagine that was fun to do, but it was great of her to think of me. Only, someone raised a question about my degree, and she made a few calls and  . . .' He shrugged.

She swallowed. Time to push further. ‘She wasn't the one to tell Coffin, though.' Her statement hung there, and for a second she wondered if she'd made a mistake. ‘Was she?'

‘Coffin? No.' He looked distracted, and she tried to think of a way to get him to talk. While thinking, she took another bite.

It worked. ‘I'm not sure how he found out exactly. I think he may have known for a while. There was some talk about an expert from Vanderbilt – someone who wanted to look at the Dunster Codex, actually – and Coffin held him off. Took him to some academic conference in Maui, even. When I found out – when he told me – I was really grateful. I mean, grateful and scared. The man had a hold over me, and, well, I always knew that he was going to want something in return.'

The Dunster Codex. They were all connected. Dulcie scrambled to come up with another prompt. ‘The Codex. You worked in the library, right?'

‘Paper conservation.' A fast flash of emotion, something Dulcie couldn't read, crossed his face. ‘Documents. It's what I'm good at, right? Actually, Dulcie, there was a letter I thought you'd like to see. It came in with
The
Wetherly Ghost
, but it was in bad shape for so long that we've only just now gotten it so it's legible again.'

He was trying to distract her. ‘Let's stick to Coffin, OK?'

‘OK.' His momentary good humor disappeared. ‘Anyway, once he knew, it was just a matter of time.'

‘He had the power to ruin you. To destroy everything you'd done.'

Even his nod looked discouraged. Dulcie pressed her advantage. ‘And you are a scholar. Even without an undergraduate degree, you know your stuff. Trista wouldn't have recommended you if she didn't respect you.'

‘Trista's the best.' He sounded like he meant it. He also sounded unaccountably sad, and Dulcie felt her stomach clench.

‘What happened to Trista, Rol— Rollie?'

‘What do you mean?' He looked up at her, so clearly confused that Dulcie found herself breathing again. ‘I mean, I can't imagine she'll ever talk to me again. But, what? Did she say something?'

‘No, never mind.' She'd follow that puzzle up later. ‘Let's get back to Coffin.' He looked away, and Dulcie decided to up the pressure. Girding herself, she tried to put on her best TV detective voice. To imagine the scene: ‘He knows the truth,' she said. ‘Hell, he's even protected you. But he's not an easy man to deal with. Not one you want to owe anything to.'

Rollie looked at her, and Dulcie wondered if she'd overdone it.

‘You can't know – you weren't there.'

Dulcie's mouth went dry. This was no longer a game of make-believe. ‘I was, Rollie.' She swallowed, hoping that would help the nausea. ‘After.'

‘I'm sorry.' He was staring at the table now, shaking his head slowly. ‘There was no other way. I mean, he was after me, and – and I thought it wouldn't hurt.'

‘Wouldn't hurt? You stabbed him! Stabbed him in the belly so that he bled out all over the conference room!' She was standing now. Shouting. ‘You killed him, and you thought it wouldn't hurt?'

‘What the—? Dulcie, what are you talking about?' Rollie was standing now, too. Over behind the counter, the sandwich guy looked mildly interested. ‘Professor Coffin? He's dead?'

‘You didn't know?'

He shook his head, his mouth hanging open.

‘You didn't—?' She didn't know how to ask, suddenly. The man who had collapsed in his chair in front of her looked pale and stunned. Ready to faint. The world was turning. Nothing was making sense. She sat down as well, and for a moment, they both just stared, blinking.

‘I didn't kill him,' Rollie said, finally, as the color began to return to his face. ‘I didn't kill anyone, Dulcie. You've got to believe me. What happened was horrible, wrong, but not— All I meant was: I gave in. I did what he wanted.' Rollie had lowered his voice, but he was speaking with such urgency that even through the fog, Dulcie heard every word. ‘He wanted me to do something for him. Something he couldn't do himself.' He paused to swallow, then looked up to meet Dulcie's gaze. ‘He wanted me to fake some documents for him, Dulcie. Professor Coffin was blackmailing me.'

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘
H
e was – what?' Dulcie knew she'd been in shock earlier. She hadn't realized it had affected her hearing. ‘Rollie, what are you saying?'

But her forlorn companion had questions of his own. ‘Someone killed Professor Coffin? And you thought – you thought—' He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and ran off to the little café's restroom. Even before the door stopped swinging, the sound of retching began.

Dulcie, on the other hand, found her appetite returning. Her ruse had worked. She'd elicited a confession. Problem was: that confession raised more questions than it answered. Finishing off the bagel and lox, she licked her fingers with satisfaction and tried to digest the new information. Trista had known that ‘Roland Galveston' was a fake. And Coffin had, too, for some time before Wednesday's announcement. Now Trista was missing and Coffin was dead – Dulcie quickly moved beyond that thought – and something even stranger was going on. She looked up as her former colleague emerged from the bathroom, his face pale and shiny.

‘Are you OK?' He might be a fraud. He had certainly done illegal things. Right now, however, Dulcie just saw a sick young man – one whom she did not believe could have committed murder. ‘Do you want some water?'

‘Had some, thanks.' He sank into his chair. ‘I'm sorry. That was just a shock.'

She watched him, wondering if he was going to say more.

‘But, I mean, I can understand why you – well, why you thought maybe  . . . But no. I did what he wanted, but I thought he'd turned me in anyway. I knew he'd blame it all on me, so I split. I packed up my office – everything that mattered to me – and took off. I didn't think, well  . . . you know.' He looked up. ‘What happened?'

She told him in the barest detail possible, not wanting to relive that awful discovery. Still, she saw him turn alternately red and then pale again at her story, but he stayed in his seat.

‘You found him?' he asked, when she had finished. ‘This morning?'

‘Yeah.' Her own voice had grown soft.

‘Wow.' He grimaced, and Dulcie made a decision. She wasn't psychic, no matter what Lucy said. But she did trust her instincts. Rollie had gotten caught up in something, something bad, but he wasn't a bad person.

Before she said anything else, though, she had one more question. ‘Rollie, tell me, why did you call me today? Why did you wait so long?'

‘It's only been, what, two days?' He scratched his head.

‘Three.' She counted backwards. ‘I called you on Tuesday.'

‘You're right. I'm sorry, I should have called you right away.'

That wasn't really what she meant. She'd been thinking that if her ersatz classmate had decided to disappear, she wanted to know why he had surfaced. For now, though, she'd let him run with it.

‘I mean, I didn't want to get you in any more trouble. I figured once I was blown, it would all become clear.' He was getting some color back. Confessing seemed to be good for him.

Dulcie, however, was only growing more confused. ‘Trouble –
me
? Wait.' She latched on to the one thing she knew something about. ‘You knew you were going to be exposed?'

‘Yeah, some guys came around. Acted like cops, but they weren't. They were way scarier. Maybe FBI; maybe, I don't know, something worse. I don't know what was going on with Coffin. I didn't know if he didn't like my work, or had just decided I was too dangerous to have around. But he must have told them something. They had a lot of questions, and they were throwing around the wildest accusations.'

Trista. This sounded like her visitors. ‘Did you talk to Trista about this?'

‘Excuse me.' They both looked up. The counter guy was hovering, holding a wet rag in his hand. ‘You guys done?' They looked around. The café was empty.

‘Don't you have bagels to bake or something?' Dulcie did her best to sound authoritative – and like someone who might actually buy another overpriced sandwich. ‘Cream cheese to churn?'

In response, he pointed to a sign:
NO LOITERING
, it said. Below it, smaller letters read:
Be courteous. Twenty minutes per table, please
.

‘Courteous, indeed.' It was the best she could muster. They both stood, and she reached for Rollie's arm. ‘Wait, I've got more questions.'

He nodded. ‘I could use some air, anyway.'

The sun was hot, reflecting off the Mass Ave sidewalk as if it were a mirror, and Rollie led them down a shady side street. For a moment, Dulcie felt a pang of fear. She'd believed him when he'd said he hadn't killed Coffin. Still  . . . as they continued walking, it was enough to make her hesitate before her next question.

‘Over here.' He gestured to a weeping willow, and she froze. He didn't seem to notice and went to sit on the top of a low garden wall. Taking a deep breath, she joined him – keeping a little distance between them. ‘You wanted to know more, right?' He broke the silence. ‘About, well, what I did?'

She nodded. ‘You said “trouble”. You got me in trouble?'

‘Yeah, I'm sorry.' He kicked at the dirt. ‘Really. You see, when Coffin first told me he wanted me to fake someone's ID, he told me to fake Trista's. I think he knew we were friends – knew we knew each other, anyway. But  . . .' He kicked the dirt again.

Dulcie didn't need to examine the stones for what followed. ‘But because you were friends, you didn't want to get her in trouble. Me, on the other hand  . . .'

‘I know, I'm sorry. I didn't think it would come to anything, really. I mean, you're a straight shooter and  . . . and  . . .'

‘I wasn't your friend.' She let that one stew for a while, before curiosity got the better of her. ‘How'd you do it?'

He shrugged. ‘It was easy. I work in documents, remember?'

‘Yeah, but, the university ID number, all of that?'

‘You know how you leave your bag when you go into the Mildon?'

She nodded.

‘Coffin started having his staff Xerox the IDs. He said it was for extra security. Nobody was supposed to say anything about it.'

‘That's illegal.' She heard how silly that sounded. ‘I mean, all of it is, but copying our IDs?'

Rollie shrugged, and Dulcie followed the thought further.

‘But, wait, if he had copies of lots of ID cards, why did he want you to fake Trista's?'

‘I don't know.' Rollie shook his head sadly. ‘Maybe because we were friends. Maybe it was his way of punishing me further. He even had me slip something into her bag  . . .'

‘Wait.' As much as she didn't want to interrupt Rollie, something was pushing at the edge of Dulcie's consciousness. ‘If Coffin wanted fake IDs, that meant he was looking for a fall guy – fall person. He set me up, with your help. Professor Coffin must have staged the theft of the Dunster Codex.'

‘The what?'

She looked at him with disbelief. ‘Don't tell me you haven't heard about that, either.'

‘No, what happened?'

She closed her eyes and thought back. Coffin had told them all about the theft at the meeting on Wednesday morning. According to Trista, the cops – or whoever they were – who had questioned her about ‘Roland Galveston' had come by Tuesday night. Dulcie herself had called Rollie later that night, and he had already disappeared. It was possible.

She filled him in, watching his face as she talked. He looked shocked, but she had to be sure. ‘That wasn't why you bolted?'

‘No, it was those guys.' He shook his head slowly. ‘They were scary.'

There was something else, something he wasn't telling her, but right now Dulcie's head felt full to bursting. She stood up. ‘I've got to think about this, Rollie. I mean, my name was used. I'm now a suspect – they think I stole the most valuable manuscript in the Mildon collection.'

‘Second, after the
Wetherly
.'

‘To Hades with
The
Wetherly Ghost.
' She was fed up. ‘I don't care if Paine read it every night to go to sleep. I don't even believe that story.'

‘You would if you could read that letter—'

‘And, and—' She was about to tell Rollie off, only pausing to see if she could find an appropriately biting aphorism. In that moment, she saw she needed him. His testimony could clear her name. Could she march him down to the university police? ‘Look, Rollie. You've got to make this right. You've got to confess.'

‘I know, Dulcie. I know. I did drop a dime to the police, to put people on the alert about, well, the fake IDs. I mean, I wasn't specific. I didn't want Coffin coming after me, but—'

He stopped, staring. His eyes were fixed on a point beyond Dulcie, back at the corner from which they had come. She turned. There stood a young woman. A blonde, waifish, whose the studs caught the light. The student who looked like Trista. She had stopped as well and seemed to be staring back.