Grey Expectations

by Clea Simon

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Dulcie reached out and gently took the Jonson. ‘You’ve got tons of important works. This Jonson, for instance. And The Wetherly Ghost.’ She paused, an idea coming together. ‘And I could be wrong, but I think I may be on the track of a lost masterpiece – a Gothic novel that was praised by none other than Thomas Paine himself.’

  Just then, a clatter of footsteps and raised voices caused them both to start. Dulcie scrambled to her feet in time to see the amassed police turn as one. Then Rogovoy nodded and turned, letting the intruder pass. It was Chris.

  ‘Dulcie! There you are. It’s been crazy.’ He looked around, as if suddenly seeing all the police activity. ‘Oh man, what happened? Are you OK?’

  And she was. ‘It’s a long story, Chris. A really long story.’ She turned to the clerk. ‘This is Thomas, Thomas Griddlemaus – Griddlehaus.’ But Chris was pulling her away.

  ‘Dulcie, it’s Trista. She’s been found.’

  Dulcie gasped. Had Read—?

  ‘She’s OK. She’s fine.’ Chris had his hands on her shoulders. He was staring into her eyes, making sure she understood. ‘She’s been in Providence all along. She gave that lecture – the Kiplinger? – at Brown yesterday. That’s what Jerry was trying to tell me when his cell cut out. She’d just taken off. She was freaked, I guess, and decided she needed some time. She called him right after, and he went down to meet her last night. Jerry says she aced it. Brown is going to offer her a fellowship.’

  The relief was physical, draining, and Dulcie collapsed against the wall.

  ‘Sweetie, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She looked up at him and tried to stand. When she stumbled, he caught her. ‘I’m just famished.’

  ‘Want to go out? Name the place!’

  But she was shaking her head. ‘I want to go home. I want to be with our cats.’

  SIXTY

  After one look at Dulcie, Rogovoy had cleared her to leave, and she and Chris cabbed home. Over three bowls of Raisin Bran, Dulcie had managed to tell her boyfriend about her own morning. Chris, who’d grabbed his own bowl to be polite, was torn between anger and disbelief.

  ‘Dulcie, you’re a heroine. You saved that little guy. But – but how could you?’ She had paused in her eating by then, and he reached out to take her hand. Esmé, who had jumped up on the table, sat and watched. ‘How could you sneak off like that?’

  ‘I thought those guys were long gone. They’d caught the other guy – Harris – at the train station.’ Dulcie paused, remembering, and shivered. Chris saw her shudder and leaned over to gather her into his arms. ‘If it weren’t for Griddlehaus. And for Esmé . . .’

  They both turned toward the cat. The little tuxedo had settled into her sphinx pose and looked quite pleased with herself.

  ‘Rogovoy told me he’d been heading to Providence,’ she said finally. ‘I knew that had sparked something – I just didn’t put it together. The Kiplinger.’ She shook her head in disbelief and pushed her bowl back.

  ‘I know,’ Chris said. ‘I could kill her. Not literally!’

  ‘Not even metaphorically.’ Dulcie turned toward her boyfriend. ‘Hey, it wasn’t a totally awful morning. I found something in the Mildon. Something Rollie pointed me to.’

  ‘Rollie?’ He looked at her quizzically. Esmé, no longer the center of attention, jumped to the floor.

  ‘Real name Rodney Gaithersburg – aka Roland Galveston?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Anyway, he really had worked in restoration, and he steered me toward some letters. I’ve only read one so far, but I’m pretty sure it’s about my author, Chris, the author of The Ravages. She had fans, including Thomas Paine. And he wrote about her enemies – about how plagiarists were aping her style to discredit her. It’s circumstantial, but it’s a start.’

  She got up and started clearing. Esmé twined around her ankles, but Dulcie’s mind was already back at work. ‘I need to read more, though. I need to get into the conservation center, to see if there are other letters and, well, what else is being worked on. I may have a lead on something even bigger.’ She stopped and turned toward her boyfriend.

  ‘Chris,’ she said, her voice dropping to a hush. ‘I think I may have found something. I may have found evidence that she was working on another book.’

  Chris was chuckling as he took the bowls from her and shooed her into the other room. ‘Go, Dulcie. Get to work,’ he called after her as he turned the tap. At his feet, the little cat paused. He looked down, into those green eyes, then nodded. And Esmé followed her into the living room, purring.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Since Jerry had forgiven Trista so readily, it seemed churlish to hold a grudge. So when her friend called that evening, Dulcie agreed to meet her. Sure, it looked like rain, but it was Saturday night. Besides, Trista was buying, she told Chris, and they’d be gathering at the People’s Republik for the last pint of the semester.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dulcie.’ Trista drew her friend aside as soon as she and Chris showed up at the bar. ‘I really am. Right before we went into the meeting, I’d gotten a text – a text from Rollie – telling me not to say anything to anyone. That I would be putting them in danger.’ She paused and bit her lip.

  Dulcie nodded.

  ‘And I did, didn’t I? I got you involved.’

  ‘You didn’t get me involved.’ Dulcie felt herself thawing. Besides, this was the truth. ‘Rollie did. He’s the one who swapped out my ID for yours and planted a fake blue ticket on you with my name – even though Coffin had made a ringer for you.’

  Trista shook her head, confused. Dulcie filled her in on everything that had happened. ‘Coffin had been planning this for a while,’ she concluded. ‘He’d seen you, and when he found that undergrad – Jessica – it must have all come together. He got her good jobs. Gave her all kinds of perks. I guess at some point, she felt she couldn’t turn him down. Anyway,’ she said finally, ‘she didn’t. But go on.’

  ‘Well, he scared me. He told me what he thought about those two – the two bruisers – and he warned me to make myself scarce. I was freaking out, Dulcie. But from what he said I knew that they weren’t the cops, and that meant I had no reason to hang around. I had the Kiplinger scheduled; I had a place to stay. I just booked a little early. I’m so sorry.’ She was shaking her head again and trembling. Dulcie suspected she was going to cry. ‘I was hoping you’d figure it out. That Jerry would— I called him, finally. After the lecture. I just couldn’t stand not hearing from him.’

  ‘He was frantic. He kept trying to call you,’ her friend said gently. ‘We all did.’

  ‘I’d thrown my phone away. I didn’t know if they could use it to trace me. It was stupid, I know. But I was so scared—’

  ‘No, it wasn’t stupid. Those men were killers. Are killers. But they’re in custody now.’

  That’s when the waterworks started. Trista sobbed and, hugging her, Dulcie started to cry, too. When Jerry came over, holding two full pints, he looked confused. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dulcie wiped her face. Beside her, Trista nodded. ‘Everything’s just fine.’

  That night, Dulcie had a dream. She’d drunk too much, she knew. It had become a hot night, as humid as full summer, and following on all the stress and fatigue, she’d been downright tipsy when Chris had helped her into bed. She’d been talking about her plans. About how she wanted to get up early the next morning. Get right to work.

  Chris hadn’t argued with her, though he had switched the alarm clock off when he thought she wasn’t looking. She could start on Monday, he’d figured. They all could use a day off.

  The dream was as vivid as they always were. Maybe more so, with an immediacy that would stay with her for days to come. Dulcie tried to describe it when she woke, but the beer – and the preceding days – were too much for her, dragging her back into the deep, healing sleep she needed.

  Writing, writing, writing, the words flowing like the rain beating against the w
indow. She brushed a curl from her cheek as the thunder broke overhead, refreshing the earth, wiping the dull heat from the air. She was on the path now, moving ahead – toward something, toward someone. And she was not alone. On her desk, curled by the papers that piled up with a reassuring speed, a small friend slept. At her shoulder, a familiar spirit, purring and satisfied. The echo of love.