Grey Expectations

by Clea Simon

  ‘So, they didn’t advise you to seek counsel?’ Years of living with Suze had taught Dulcie a few things.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The normally sharp Trista was sounding a little unsure. ‘Just, you know, that I shouldn’t leave town.’

  ‘And tell me again – what exactly did they say about Roland?’ Something was bothering Dulcie. Something she couldn’t quite identify.

  ‘Just that one phrase – calling him “the late”. I don’t think the cop was supposed to tell me that; the other guy – shorter guy – gave him a look that shut him up. But it was the way they talked about him, you know? Like they were trying hard not to use the past tense.’ She paused. To English majors, this was important. Still, Dulcie wanted to know more.

  ‘And then?’ she prompted her friend.

  Another shake of her blonde hair. ‘They wanted to know when I’d last seen him. What my “relationship” with him was.’ Trista used her fingers to make air quotes around the word.

  ‘Relationship?’ Dulcie looked at her friend, trying to see beyond her stoic front. Although Trista and Jerry had been living together for months now, they’d gone through a rough patch, and Dulcie knew her friend had gone out with other guys in the interim. ‘Tris, were you and Roland . . .?’

  ‘Roland? He’s – no.’ Trista reached for another tissue, and for a moment Dulcie wondered if her friend was avoiding her gaze. ‘He’s not my type.’

  It wasn’t what she’d started to say, of that Dulcie was sure. A horrible thought crept into Dulcie’s mind. ‘Tris, you don’t think that Jerry thinks . . .’ She let it hang. Jerry was a computer geek and Chris’s best friend. Hardly the sort to act out of jealous rage. However, he did love Trista – and she had led him a merry chase for a while this past winter. ‘He wouldn’t get in a fight or anything. Would he?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Trista shrugged and turned away. ‘Not Jerry.’

  ‘Did the cops ask about him? About Jerry?’ Something was wrong. Dulcie wasn’t psychic – she didn’t believe in that stuff, not really. But something had changed.

  ‘No, just what I told you. They came over. They asked me when I’d last seen Roland and, and . . . that other stuff. Then they told me not to leave town for a while.’ Trista had regained her composure now and was dabbing at her nose, which was red against its little gold stud. ‘Then they left and I called you.’

  ‘Huh.’ Dulcie couldn’t place it. And so she finished her tea. Trista seemed calmer – or at least somewhat distracted. Though she was once again walking around, her route – gathering papers, a notebook that had fallen behind the sofa, and her laptop – looked to have more purpose. In fact, as Dulcie stood up to return her mug to the kitchen, Tris followed her. Dulcie had the distinct impression that although her friend had summoned her, she now wanted Dulcie to leave.

  ‘Well, I guess we’ll hear more. The department has probably been informed.’ She put the mug in the sink and turned to face her friend. Trista was looking at the window. By now the late twilight had faded and her own face, pale and pierced, stared back. ‘Tris . . .’ Dulcie’s heart went out to her friend. ‘Do you want me to follow up, maybe, with Suze?’

  ‘I guess so.’ She shrugged. Dulcie had never heard her sound so vague. Then again, all the tears must have worn her out. ‘Yeah, that would be good.’

  Exhaustion, Dulcie decided, and she leaned in to hug her friend. Trista hesitated a moment, she could feel the slender body tense up. Then she hugged her back and took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Dulce.’ The ghost of a smile flickered on her face. ‘You’re a pal.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Dulcie tried to smile back. Roland might be beyond help; Trista wasn’t. ‘Now, back to work!’

  It was a weak joke, but it relaxed them both. And Dulcie headed out into the night, trying very hard to figure out what had just happened – and why her friend was being so evasive.

  Chris was gone by the time she got home, and the kitten was sacked out on the sofa. Looking at the soft white belly, Dulcie had a sneaking feeling that Chris had given the little cat some extra treats. Sure enough, the last of the dumplings had been eviscerated, its dough wrapper lying in the trash.

  The kitten followed her into the kitchen as Dulcie made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich: open-faced. She’d had enough of carbohydrates for the night. She brought the plate into the living room and sat opposite the couch. Esmé jumped up as if on cue, flopping on her back and squirming a bit. While the little cat didn’t seem to be in distress, she had probably had enough spiced pork for a lifetime, Dulcie decided. Well, she wouldn’t begrudge her the dumpling now.

  Besides, Esmé upside down was particularly adorable, Dulcie thought to herself as she ate. Staring at a cat always helped her concentrate, and right now her brain didn’t seem to be firing on all cylinders. The peanut butter was good, salty and rich, but she knew the snack was more procrastination than nutrition. Despite their supposedly radical content, those essays were the driest part of her research thus far – and they were a necessary evil. All of her colleagues had to read material they didn’t love. When she thought of what Trista had plowed through, she shuddered.

  Another thought made her shiver again, despite the humidity that had closed down the earlier cool evening breeze. Trista. There was something wrong with what her friend had been telling her. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Dulcie took another bite and tried to figure out what was bothering her.

  There were a lot of options. Maybe, she thought hopefully, Trista had been wrong about the whole thing. Maybe Roland wasn’t even dead – or not murdered, anyway. Trista had been so hazy about what had happened – even about what she had been asked. If someone had come to question Dulcie, she’d have remembered his – or her – name, for sure. She’d probably have gotten a badge number. Then again, living with Suze as her friend went through law school might have given her an unusual perspective. And Trista had reason to be preoccupied, didn’t she? Dulcie looked at Esmé for an answer, but the little cat remained silent.

  The second question was why Trista had been so reticent about soliciting help. Once she’d unburdened herself to Dulcie, she’d seemed ready to forget the whole thing. As Esmé stretched out along the sofa, Dulcie answered that one for herself. Trista had her hands full: the Kiplinger prize, the lecture in Providence, the defense of her thesis . . . there was only so much even a particularly sharp human mind could contain.

  Besides, Dulcie had almost promised to ask Suze about it. Trista hadn’t come this far without being organized. At some level, she probably considered the problem delegated. She hadn’t been charged, not yet, and she’d done what she could, following a first interrogation. When she was a full professor and had a team of graduate students laboring under her that would be a useful skill.

  Dulcie, however, could not let go of anything so easily. Maybe that was why Trista had pulled ahead of her in the race to finish. She and Trista had passed their general exams the same semester. They had even settled on their topics at around the same time. But still, Dulcie knew she was at least a year away from finishing, whereas Trista could be gone by September.

  The idea of finishing boggled the mind, and – staring at Esmé for answers – Dulcie wondered if that was in fact one reason she wasn’t yet done. True, research had been a little easier for Trista: those Victorians documented every aspect of their lives, whereas Dulcie really had to dig to find out about her subject. But that had been a large part of the appeal of Dulcie’s topic. She had fallen in love with the nearly forgotten Gothic novel, The Ravages of Umbria, in part because of its obscurity. Not only was the author unknown, the work itself – what was left of it – was usually dismissed as so much sensationalist claptrap – yet another goosebump-raising tale of an orphaned heiress trapped in a lonely tower. The ornate – some would say ‘overwritten’ – prose had wrapped her in its spell and convinced her that there was more to the book, and its nameless author, than just some cheap high-jinks, or anothe
r ‘She-Author’ trying to make some quick eighteenth-century pence.

  And it wasn’t like Dulcie hadn’t made any progress. Through scrupulous textual analysis, Dulcie had just about proven that the wild adventure did have more to it than ghosts and unfaithful knights. Had, in fact, proven that the nameless author had used her fun fiction to lay out a powerful argument for women’s rights. An argument that might have caused her to take ship and flee from London to the New World. But to support that initial discovery, Dulcie was now compelled to wade through what felt like an ocean of other political writings, and that’s where she’d got bogged down.

  ‘It’s like my reward is to read more drudgery,’ she complained to the kitten. Esmé flipped her head and pinned her with one green eye. ‘You’re right, Esmé,’ Dulcie told her. ‘I shouldn’t be worrying about my own work when my friend is in trouble.’

  The kitten mewed softly and flipped over, and for the life of her Dulcie couldn’t tell if the little beast was reacting to the Chinese food or making a comment on her person’s ability to avoid unpleasant work.

  ‘Well, it’s not like I don’t have the best excuse in the world,’ Dulcie said. Esmé watched her head to the kitchen, but wisely declined to comment.

  FIVE

  ‘Suze, she’s not the sort to panic.’ It wasn’t really a question where Dulcie’s obligations lay, and after a longing look at her papers, she had reached Suze on her cell. Although it was after nine, her former room-mate was in the Coop. She’d been in line to pick up her graduation gown and her requisite Doctor of Laws collar – the student-centric store stayed open late as Commencement drew close – but she’d stepped between the racks to give some impromptu legal advice. ‘Trista’s as tough as they come.’

  ‘What? Sorry, you go ahead.’ Suze tended to multitask, but this was asking a lot. ‘But, Dulcie, you said the police didn’t charge her, right? They didn’t even say specifically why they were there?’

  ‘No, I mean, yes. That’s right.’ Even sitting in her living room, Dulcie could get flustered. It didn’t help that Esmé had shaken off the effects of the spicy dumplings and was practically doing backflips with her new toy mouse, her white paws acting like little semaphore flags in the fading light. ‘She said they just asked her about her relationship with Roland, whatever that means.’

  Suze made a noise that suggested she had her own ideas, and Dulcie bit her lip. Especially as graduation grew near, Suze had gotten a little less tolerant of some of her one-time roomie’s friends – though never with Dulcie herself. For a moment, Dulcie thought of Esmé and her own impatience, but the kitten had rocketed out of the room, leaving her person in the growing gloom.

  ‘Suze, she and Jerry were just going through a phase.’ Ever since meeting Ariano the previous summer, Suze had become a big fan of monogamy. ‘And, besides, that isn’t the cops’ concern.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Dulcie heard shuffling and imagined her tall, athletic friend shrugging into the long, black gown. Three weeks, and Suze would no longer be a student. For Dulcie, with at least a year – minimum – ahead, the idea was almost incomprehensible. So much had changed since they’d met in sophomore year. ‘Hey, did you hear the Kenyan ambassador is going to be one of the honorees? Sorry, so go through it again. What exactly did she tell you the police said?’

  Dulcie noted how Suze had qualified her question. Her friend was going to be a wonderful advocate, but right now it was a little annoying. For what felt like the fourteenth time, she ran through everything that had happened – everything that Trista had said had happened, she corrected herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a feline shape jump up to the window sill and begin to groom. The image was comforting. Some things did stay the same. ‘And then they told her not to leave town.’

  ‘Huh.’ Suze’s tone said it all. ‘Somehow, I doubt a police detective said that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The cat, silhouetted against the window, looked larger than Esmé. In the late afternoon light, the long guard hairs almost glowed.

  ‘I think your friend has an active imagination, Dulcie.’

  ‘But . . .’ Dulcie paused. Suze had once accused her of getting carried away by her fancies. That’s what happened, she had figured out, when a law student lives with a literature major. ‘Would they say anything more if they weren’t ready to charge her?’

  Another sigh. Dulcie waited, a new thought forming in her head. That cat – it was hard to see in this light – but wasn’t the fur longer than Esmé’s? The silhouette a little larger and leaner?

  ‘—overdramatizing a situation.’ Suze had been talking, and Dulcie had missed it.

  ‘So, you think she made the whole thing up?’ That much she’d gotten.

  ‘I’m not saying she made it all up, but if she was really a suspect in a murder investigation there’d be more going on than two plain-clothes cops simply dropping by. Even if they didn’t yet have a warrant for her arrest. They didn’t even confirm that this guy is dead. Maybe there’s something going on with him, something else that they want to investigate. Maybe an identity theft issue, or something with a fellowship or work. I mean, does he have a campus job?’

  Dulcie shrugged. ‘Probably. I think the fellowship comes with a position – something in the library or one of the conservation labs.’

  ‘Well, maybe there’s something going on outside of his studies.’ Suze was on a roll. ‘Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s done something that’s making the police talk to his female colleagues. Something that would make them wish he was gone – even talk about him as “the late”.’

  Suze didn’t have to elaborate. The campus had been rocked by a sexual harassment scandal not that long ago. ‘Well, why did Trista feel threatened by them?’

  ‘Didn’t you say she’s defending her thesis next week?’ In the background, Dulcie heard a PA announcement. Nine forty-five, the store was probably closing. ‘Look, unless somebody shows up with a warrant, I really wouldn’t worry about this, ’kay, Dulcie? I’ve got to run.’

  ‘Bye.’ Dulcie let her friend run off. Chris was working as usual; the overnight help-desk positions in the computer lab paid the best. Right now, that was fine. She leaned back on the old sofa and watched the silhouetted cat continue his methodical bath.

  ‘Mr Grey, what do you think of all this?’ She had no doubt now. Although the cat on the window sill remained shadowy in the fading light, his shape, his form, even his calm composure let her know that her former feline had once again appeared. But as so often happened, the vision remained silent. Dulcie wondered if there was some rule – she could hear her former pet or see him. Rarely did she experience both, and right now, she longed to hear what she’d come to think of as his voice, soft and deep. Still, the sight of him was immensely comforting. Maybe Suze was right. Maybe Trista had a bad case of stage fright and had made some kind of routine visit larger than it was. It was a stretch, but then again, Trista had spent the last four years embedded in Victorian melodrama.

  It hit her like cold water. Like a gust of winter in the warm spring night. Dulcie had sensed something was wrong, and Suze had been sure she was overreacting. If her former room-mate hadn’t been so distracted, she would undoubtedly have noticed it herself. As cool and calmly as she could, Dulcie went through it all one more time. What Trista had told her on the phone. What Trista had told her about the police visit. What she had repeated – both back to Trista and then to Suze, with her almost-legal mind. No wonder Suze had dismissed it. Dulcie took a deep breath of relief.

  Trista could not have been accused of murder. Nobody had actually said that Roland Galveston was dead.

  It was the pressure. It had to be. Dulcie knew how hard her friend had been working. Next week, she’d be facing the ultimate test. Maybe Trista had had a little breakdown – a ‘brain melt’, as the grad students called it. It happened to all of them eventually, and Trista with her cool exterior was probably a little more brittle than most.

  Still, something was up
. It was easy for Suze to dismiss Trista’s concerns. Dulcie had sat with her, had held her as she cried. Dulcie believed the police had visited her friend and colleague and had warned her about something. The trick would be finding out what was going on – with Trista, with Roland, with the Rattigan, maybe – without disturbing her buddy’s fragile equilibrium any more.

  ‘I can do this.’ Dulcie reached for the phone. She’d call Trista and reassure her, first off. Then she’d start thinking. Maybe even go back to talk to her. ‘I’m a researcher, too, Mr Grey. I bet there’s a simple way to get to the bottom of this.’ She didn’t want to turn the lights on – not while the shadow of her beloved cat kept her company. The movement though – or maybe it was the sudden determined tone of her voice – had disturbed him. As she pulled the phone on to her lap, she looked up to see him arching – his fur bristling and his tail fluffed out to three times its normal size as he stared out at something in the dark.

  ‘What is it, Mr Grey? Is something out there?’ She ran over to the window and peered into the yard. All she could see were shadows. ‘Is it a dog? Another cat?’ She could no longer see her old friend beside her, but she felt the touch of fur against her bare arm, soft as velvet and as comforting.

  ‘It’s not something in the yard, is it, Mr Grey?’ She turned toward where he had been. By some trick of the light, two green sparks were reflected off the window. Two green sparks that now stared into her own eyes, bright with a warning intensity. ‘Suze is wrong, isn’t she? There’s something dangerous out there.’ The sparks flared once – and were gone.

  SIX

  She wasn’t keen on going out again, that was for sure. The night – Cambridgeport – had suddenly grown to seem threatening. However, her original plan still made sense: research usually held the answer. A quick Google search – plugging in ‘crime’, ‘murder’, and the university itself – didn’t bring up anything of interest, but that wasn’t necessarily conclusive, and so she used her laptop to call up the department directory. Then with a deep breath for courage, Dulcie returned to the phone. She’d call Roland directly. That would be the simplest thing. Of course, if he answered, she’d have to come up with some excuse for calling. Well, there was a departmental meeting scheduled for the morning. She could always claim to be unsure about the time or something.