Grey Expectations (29 page)

Hey room-mate, how are you?
she typed. At her feet, she felt the soft brush of fur. Esmé had come over to keep her company.

You're up early.
The answer came back immediately.
Bad dream?

Dulcie smiled and reached down to pet the cat. Suze hadn't heard the half of it. Esmé pushed her wet nose into Dulcie's left hand. With her right, she typed:
Weird dream.

Any more with your friend?
The words were well meant, but Dulcie felt them like a blow. Suze knew Trista. They'd hung out. But Suze and Dulcie had drifted so far apart that Suze couldn't even remember Trista's name. Did she remember Esmé? Did the little cat remember her?

The little chime broke into her brooding.
Trista
,
I mean. Sorry.

She's gone missing
, Dulcie wrote back. She was as much to blame if they were drifting. She hadn't even told Suze the news.
It's been crazy. Theft from the Mildon. Professor Coffin murdered!

Heard that
. The reply pinged back.
Wonder who gets his donor list?

Dulcie shook her head. Suze did not know that Dulcie had found the body. She'd never have responded so casually if she had. But she had raised an interesting point. From what Dulcie had read, Coffin was among the most successful fund-raisers at the university. He would be missed.

You OK?
Suze might not be up on the latest, but even across town, she could read Dulcie's silences.
Chris working?

Yeah, I'm fine,
she typed – and meant it. At her feet, the cat had begun to purr.
Miss you.
She meant that, too.

FORTY-NINE

A
crack, and a rattle broke the night, the sound like a skeleton's fingers across ice. Dead things, cruel and grasping, sought entrance, drawn by the life within. The woman at the desk shivered and drew her cloak around her. Phantoms, phantoms all, bare branches against a window, the dried leaves of plants she did not know skittering across the panes. They could not reach her, she knew that. Friendless and alone, she toil'd on. Her last effort, her best, would be her only legacy, and she must labor on. True demons lurk'd, real ghouls, and her trust, too precious, could not be squandered now. Girding herself against those who would in verity suck her life's blood, she set to work, taking up the pen once more and steeling herself against the phantoms of the night.

When she woke again, Chris was by her side with Esmé tucked under his chin. It was a charming sight, the opposite of the lonely nightmare setting, and Dulcie lay there for a moment, basking in their warmth. When she did finally slide out of bed, she did so quietly, letting Chris sleep. The little cat, however, opened one eye and watched her as she dressed.

For Dulcie, even such quiet company was a balm. The dream had been disturbing, all this talk of real phantoms and ghosts – and its setting had shifted ahead by several months, from sweltering heat to bitter cold. But the May morning Dulcie woke to already felt balmy, the daylight that poked around the shade promising a better day ahead. Things were crazy. A man had been murdered. But the people she loved most were safe, and they loved her. Everything else was details.

She was taking her laptop into the kitchen when it hit her. Trista wasn't safe; not that she knew, anyway. She looked up at the clock. Too early to call Jerry; he kept the same hours as Chris. Today he could file an official missing persons report, at least. And, she reminded herself, after her encounters with those two thugs, the university police would take it seriously. Rogovoy had said they were already on the lookout for Trista. Now it was all about the waiting.

She opened her laptop, hoping to hang on to some of her waking optimism. A new day. A new start. It didn't help. Any way she approached it, her thesis was in the toilet. And her name was probably still mud, too, her only defense against possible charges having decamped and disconnected his phone. A small ping alerted her to an email, but if she hoped for a reprieve, she was disappointed: MTHORPE. She knew she'd emailed him with questions, but she couldn't shake the idea that he was contacting her now to let her know her grants had been revoked.

For a moment, Dulcie was tempted to flee. To pack a lunch and head for the Greyhound station. Not back to the commune – Lucy would just be another failed responsibility. Just  . . . someplace different. New York, and one of those auction houses. Santa Fe. Chris would understand. He'd take care of Esmé. More and more, she was his cat, anyway.

The fantasy grabbed her. It would be so easy. She reached to close the computer, to start her new life – and felt something soft and warm push her back. Esmé had landed in her lap and stared up at her with grave intent.

‘What is it, Esmé? Would you really miss me?'

In response, the cat thrust her head into Dulcie's hand, pushing her velvet ears against Dulcie's palm. She was just too irresistible, Dulcie decided, and she began stroking the cat. And then, since she was stuck there anyway, she opened the email.

Ms Schwartz
, it began.
So glad you got in touch. Have been meaning to call. Heard last night from the university police that your identity card had been stolen and have started the process to remove you from disciplinary probation.

That caught Dulcie up short. ‘Disc pro' was the first step toward expulsion. She had known she was a suspect, but not that she had already been judged guilty.

Call me to set up an appointment
, the email closed. Well, that was an eye-opener. To top it off, Dulcie noticed, Thorpe had not answered any of her questions.

Despite the hour, she was able to reach him in the departmental office. From the sounds in the background, she guessed that he was trying to work the coffee maker. ‘Only time it's quiet enough to get any work done,' he grumbled over the phone as the water ran. But when she asked about the Dunster Codex, he seemed as in the dark as she was.

‘It's been in and out of the conservation center since it arrived,' he said. ‘Hold on.' A clatter of crockery, and then he was back. ‘A pity, really. So much money, and it arrived in such bad shape.'

‘How much did it cost, exactly?' For all the gossip, she'd never heard an actual figure.

‘Huh. Like they would tell me,' her adviser chuffed in a moment of frankness. ‘Thousands? Millions, maybe.' He sipped, noisily, and Dulcie took the phone over to her own coffee pot. ‘They used some complicated financing procedure. Private donors, loans – Professor Coffin was constantly on the move.'

She missed a bit as her own tap ran. Something about loans and endowments.

‘Honestly, if he hadn't taken charge, I don't think the university would have pursued it,' Thorpe was saying by the time she had the coffee brewing. ‘And when you think what else has become available in the past year alone. The Olmstead Dickens, for example. Three serialized novels in manuscript form.
Manuscript
!'

Dulcie had no response to that, not being particularly enamored of Dickens, and let him talk as she fetched both milk and sugar. Would the cops – the department – ever find out that Coffin had been behind the fake ID scam? That he might have been involved in the Codex theft? She tried to remember if she'd told Rogovoy. Not that it mattered much: the only source she would be able to cite would be the missing Rollie.

She was trying to think how to bring it up when her adviser asked about her own research, and she scrambled for an answer. ‘I'm looking at some new material,' she said, milk in hand. That was honest. ‘I'm not exactly sure how it all plays in.'

‘New?' Thorpe almost laughed, causing her to spill.

‘New to me,' she confessed, reaching for a paper towel. ‘An essay that seems to belong to the canon.'

‘Speaking of, you might want to take a look at something in the Mildon Collection.'

‘The Mildon?' She swallowed hard. With the milk, the coffee wasn't that hot. It was more the thought of that subterranean trouble spot.

‘Yes, there's a letter, recently restored. It pertains to that Lord Richmond book,
The Wetherly
something? But I gather it has some interesting discussion of the genre. Might be something you can work in. Lord Richmond, Thomas Paine, and all.'

Dulcie made what she hoped was an encouraging noise as she sipped. ‘I think I've heard about that.' From Rollie – not that she wanted to cite that particular source. ‘So, um, I still have access to the collection?'

‘Of course.' Her adviser didn't miss a beat. ‘You were only under investigation. Now, I gather, all the attention has been placed on one of the work-study students.'

‘Jessica Wachovsky?' She thought of the slim undergrad as she'd last seen her, running across the Common.

‘It's appalling, such a betrayal.' Thorpe sounded like he was talking to himself, but his outrage made his words carry. ‘A personal betrayal.'

‘What do you mean?' The girl had been involved, sure, but she'd wanted to confess.

‘The job at the Mildon. She never would have had it without Professor Coffin's approval. The professor – excuse me, the late professor – personally hand-picked everybody who worked there.'

FIFTY

T
here were just too many coincidences. Dulcie stood by the kitchen window, mug in hand, and tried to make sense of them all. Professor Coffin had been in the center of something, that much was clear. Whatever it was, it had gotten him killed.

The logical approach, she knew, was to look at who had survived. For starters, there was Rollie, who claimed he had been helped and then blackmailed by the late professor. Then Jessica, picked by the professor for a job – and maybe also as a model for a fake ID. Dulcie had been struck by the transformation she'd witnessed in the clippings. Somehow, it seemed unlikely that an innocent undergrad could have dreamed all this up – and gotten a professor killed as well. But she'd liked Rollie, trusted him even when he'd confessed to getting her in a jam. Rogovoy, she suspected, didn't. Then again, Rogovoy was a cop. It was his job to suspect everyone.

Dulcie couldn't see how, but it must all be tied up with the theft of the Dunster Codex. Had Trista been involved? Dulcie didn't want to think so, but at this point, everything was on the table.

And what about those two thugs, Harris and Read? Dulcie thought of Read as she'd last seen him, holding that cruel knife, and shivered. Could that have been the same weapon that had left the professor bleeding on the floor of the back conference room? It was all too likely. If only she could—

‘Ow!' She jumped. Esmé scampered away, leaving Dulcie to examine several small red marks on her foot. ‘You bit me. Bad—' No, the kitten only wanted to play. ‘I'm sorry, Esmé,' Dulcie said, searching in vain for a cat toy to toss. ‘You startled me.'

Besides, she thought as she balled up some aluminum foil, Rogovoy had asked her to leave it alone. Commanded her, actually. She'd been sitting in the cruiser, and he'd come over one final time, leaning over as if to give her his benediction.

‘This is a police matter, Ms Schwartz,' he'd said instead, his deep voice gravelly and tired. ‘The theft. The murder. This is what we do. Our job. We have resources that you do not. Please, do not complicate our job further by getting involved.' He'd paused, staring down at her. ‘More involved, that is. Just – just go finish your thesis, OK?' He'd closed the door then and watched them drive off. Dulcie had seen him standing there until traffic had surrounded them.

‘Are you trying to tell me the same thing?' Dulcie tossed the ball and watched as the white paws grabbed it out of the air. ‘That I should simply mind my own business?' The black tail lashed as Dulcie feinted then tossed the foil again, and Esmé got down to the serious business of the hunt.

She was so busy with the kitten, Dulcie didn't hear the next ping from her laptop. And by the time Esmé had lost interest, stopping mid-volley for an impromptu bath, the computer had faded into sleep mode, the Mr Grey screen saver obscuring the message marked: ‘
Urgent. Please Read
.'

She wasn't thinking of her email at that point. It was almost nine. Chris, Rogovoy, even Thorpe had been telling her the same thing, more or less, and her dream had confirmed it. Shoving her laptop, some pencils, and a yellow legal pad into her bag, she headed toward the door. Esmé looked up, and she paused to pet the silky fur. But even as the young cat reached up with her white mitts to grab her hand, Dulcie detached herself. Horrible things might be happening outside. But Dulcie Schwartz had to get to work.

FIFTY-ONE

D
espite Thorpe's assurances, Dulcie felt a shiver of anxiety. They wouldn't let her in. She'd gotten to the Mildon just at its Saturday opening time, and the mouse-like clerk had peered at her ID for what seemed like hours. Then he had turned his gaze on her, his eyes exaggerated and large behind the huge glasses. He must have heard that she was a suspect, Dulcie decided, and she kept her mouth shut. Finally, with a small huff, he checked her in, filling out the blue ticket and handing it to her.

‘I'll need to take that.' He stared pointedly at Dulcie's bag. She hesitated. This, after all, was where the trouble had started.

He noticed. ‘We – ah – have instituted new security proceedings.' It was the closest thing she would get to an apology, she suspected. Removing the pad, she handed the bag over. He placed it in a closet next to the entrance and then used a key from his key chain to lock the door, she noticed with gratitude. That done, he pressed the button that released the front counter and beckoned Dulcie to come in.

As she stepped inside, she looked around the small entrance-way. Set against the ceiling she could see the security gate, ready to come down in case of an emergency. Supposedly, there would be a barrier like this at every entrance – even at the chain-link wall to the far right, which separated the rarities from the more common confines of the Widener stacks.