Grey Expectations (15 page)

She sat on the kitchen floor and faced the small cat. ‘What is it, Esmé? Tell me, please.'

The cat blinked once.

‘Esmé, I know you can speak. I've heard you.' She looked around. No sign of her boyfriend. ‘We both have. And the way you're looking at me, well, I feel there's something going on. Something besides a mouse.' She shivered at the thought and tried to dismiss it. ‘Something important.'

If any of her friends could see her right now, they'd think she'd lost it. Any of them but Chris. Then again, Chris didn't need to plead with the kitten. Chris, by his own account, was getting regular updates from Mr Grey.

Esmé turned toward the table, and Dulcie's heart leaped. Was it Mr Grey? Her former pet might be both enigmatic and elusive, but he'd always come through when she needed him. Maybe Esmé needed him, too. Needed him to translate, at least. She turned toward the table, too. But all she saw was her bag, which she'd dropped there while reaching for her sweater, and some crumbs, highlighted in the morning light. No grey cat; not even the shadow of one.

She turned back to the little cat, just in time to see Esmé stand and walk over to the table. With one neat leap, she made it to the surface, where she sat in the middle of the pile of crumbs and began to wash.

‘Great.' Dulcie hauled herself, a little more laboriously, to her feet. ‘Was that all to alert me to my lack of housekeeping skills?'

The cat didn't comment, as she was now involved in washing her white belly fur, and so Dulcie reached for her bag. ‘Thanks a lot, Esmé.'

Feeling a little disappointed, and a little silly for letting herself get let down, she reached to pet the cat. Esmé looked up from her toilette, and for a moment, Dulcie felt it again. That piercing stare – the cat had to be trying to tell her something. She paused. At this rate, she was going to be late. Whatever it was would have to wait till later. Shouldering her bag and buttoning the first two buttons of the oversized sweater, Dulcie braced herself to meet Jerry and the day.

Chris's apartment – Dulcie still thought of it that way – was on the fourth floor of an old brick building, and the carpet on the wide front stairway was permanently stained. But even though its color had changed from some industrial solid to a messy incoherent plaid over the years, it did serve to muffle the sound as Dulcie clattered down to the sidewalk. Still, the dull thud of her feet was enough to rouse someone, who ducked out of the building as she descended, and then stepped into the alley as Dulcie pushed open the glass front-door.

She looked up as she did to see that, sure enough, Esmé had abandoned her bath for a post at the kitchen window. She waved at the little cat, the white chin and neat bib clearly visible from the sidewalk, and told herself the cat nodded in response. The idea of someone looking out for her was cheering as she headed off to meet Jerry.

But as she turned toward the Square, the cat continued to stare at the sidewalk out front. She watched as a figure stepped out from the side of the building on to the sidewalk. She mewed, helpless, as the figure watched Dulcie walk away, her curls bouncing against the collar of her oatmeal-colored sweater.

‘
I tried to warn her. I did my best.
' The words whispered through the empty apartment as the little cat watched her person disappear down the street. ‘
I can't just say anything out loud. Not and be her pet.
'

‘
I know, little one,
'
another voice answered. ‘
I know.
'

TWENTY-ONE

J
erry looked half frantic by the time Dulcie saw him, huddled over a corner table at the Greenhouse. His phone in hand, the skinny redhead was staring at it as if the technology had somehow outwitted him.
Disappointed
him, she mentally revised her thoughts. It had, of course. Neither of them had heard from Trista. Then again, she thought, at least the police had not called her back. Which simply meant she could focus on helping her two friends.

‘Hey.' She greeted her friend with a hug. Under his T-shirt, he felt like skin and bones. ‘No word?'

He shook his head, confirming what she already knew. The waitress appeared with a coffee pot, turned over her cup and filled it. That's what she loved about the Greenhouse. Nobody here would try to make conversation before they'd given you coffee.

‘Jerry, did you order?'

He shook his head, and she bit her lip. He was always on the slim side, but worry was taking its toll. ‘I think you should eat. At least try to.' She looked up at the waiting server. ‘Feta and spinach omelet, please. With hash browns.'

The waitress turned toward Jerry. Dulcie did, too, silently willing him to order. ‘I'll take a bagel,' he said, finally. She wasn't optimistic about him eating it.

Dulcie sipped her coffee and considered her next move. She didn't want to upset Jerry any more, but it was pretty clear he didn't know what was going on. She didn't either, really, but she knew about Trista's visit from the police – and her friend's conviction that she was wanted for murder. She was going to have to tell him about that, and about Suze's take that Trista had blown the whole thing out of proportion. That she'd had a little breakdown – brain freeze – that would blow over. Maybe he'd have some insight; maybe he'd been worrying about Trista, too. At any rate, it would all be better in person than over the phone, and if she could get him to eat something first, that would be better still.

Twenty minutes later, she had spelled it all out: that first call from Trista, Suze's rational takedown, the meeting at the department – and then Trista's promise to talk after she spoke with someone. As an afterthought, she wound up by telling him about the call from the cops. She didn't want him to take Trista's fear – that the police were after her – too seriously. Jerry's reaction was not what Dulcie expected.

‘Dulcie, you've got to go to the cops right away.' Although Dulcie had been talking too much to finish her own breakfast, Jerry had been distracted enough to eat, and now he focused all his renewed energy on her. ‘You have to! I bet that's why they want to talk to you. Trista's in trouble. I
knew
it.'

‘But, but  . . .' Dulcie bit her lip, the half an omelet she'd managed feeling like lead in her belly. ‘I think someone's setting me up.' She'd explained about the meeting – and about the blue ticket – but in consideration of Jerry's feelings had skimmed over her fear that Trista had been the one in possession of that ticket. That left her without a good excuse now, and she pushed her plate back as if it could explain for her. ‘I mean, for the theft.'

Jerry didn't pause. Without thinking, he dug his fork into what was left of Dulcie's hash browns and made his case. ‘I can see what you're saying, and I'm sorry, Dulcie. But that's obviously a mistake. And it's only about property – an old book. Trista may be involved in a murder, and now she's missing! That's got to take priority.'

‘But  . . .' Dulcie had told Jerry what Suze had said. It didn't matter; he wasn't listening. At least he was eating, Dulcie thought, watching the thin redhead hoover up the rest of her breakfast. She certainly didn't feel like it.

‘So, we'll go to the university police?' He scraped up the last of the fried onion with his fork and signaled for the waitress. ‘Now?'

‘Sure.' Dulcie didn't know what else to say. When her phone started to ring, she reached for her bag, hoping for deliverance. ‘Maybe that's Trista now.'

It wasn't, although she recognized the extension. The university police were calling again.

TWENTY-TWO

R
ather than try to explain on the phone, Dulcie had let the call go to voicemail. And soon after, she and Jerry were at the front door of the station.

‘Maybe I should go in alone.' Dulcie turned to her friend. ‘I mean, they have been calling me.'

‘No way.' Jerry held the door open. ‘If Trista's involved, I'm involved.' It wasn't exactly a vote of confidence for Dulcie, but she managed a smile and led the tall redhead in.

‘Hi, I'm Dulcie Schwartz, a graduate student in—' She was doing her best, gripping the edge of the counter that ran the length of the room. Her voice, she knew by the way the receptionist was straining toward her, was barely audible and sinking.

‘Dulcie!' A deep voice boomed like thunder, if thunder could have a brassy Boston accent. ‘Miss Schwartz! There you are.'

She looked up to see a man as big as his voice moving toward her, and her initial dismay began to fade.

‘Detective Rogovoy.' He wasn't a friend, exactly, but in the past, he had proven to be less of an ogre than he looked. ‘Um, good to see you?'

‘And you. Especially since we've been trying to get hold of you for more than twenty-four hours now.' He leaned in, and the resemblance to an ogre became more apparent. Despite herself, Dulcie shuddered. ‘But never mind that. You're here now. Come on. I've got coffee.'

He put a big paw-like hand on her back and propelled her away from the desk, toward a door. ‘Wait, Detective Rogovoy? Do you know Jerry Hannafin?'

She turned toward the redhead. He'd gone a bit pale, but looked up with a brave smile.

‘He's sort of involved in all this.' It was the best Dulcie could do on short notice.

‘Is he now?' The large detective squinted at Jerry, not a pretty look, and Dulcie saw Jerry grow a shade whiter, which made his freckles stand out. ‘Wait here, young man. Miss Schwartz and I have some catching up to do.'

‘Please,' Dulcie whispered, willing Jerry to stay. At this point, he seemed like her last tie to the real world. He nodded – at least, she thought he did – and then she was whisked away.

‘So, Ms Schwartz, you probably know why we wanted to speak with you.' The portly detective made it sound like a statement, but she nodded sadly, staring at the coffee in front of her. He had promised it was fresh, when he'd brought in the two mugs. To her, it looked too bitter for words.

‘Good.' He'd taken the seat opposite her, managing to tuck his knees under the table. ‘Why don't you catch me up, then?'

That was a question, Dulcie knew it. She also knew what Suze would say: don't volunteer anything. For that matter, Suze would have told her not to go in, not without a lawyer – or someone as near to the thing itself as her former room-mate – by her side. But between Jerry's insistence and her own nagging feeling that she'd already bugged her about-to-graduate friend beyond the limits of tolerance, she'd found herself here, alone. Besides, she sort of trusted the burly detective. And she did want to make a clean breast of everything.

‘Here.' She dug into her bag until she found the blue ticket and put it on the table. ‘Here it is.'

The detective looked down at it and back up at her. She reached over and pushed it toward him, willing him to look at it. To respond somehow. ‘The ticket.'

‘I see.' He picked it up carefully, his sausage-like fingers dwarfing the crumpled paper. ‘This is the ticket?'

She nodded, misery choking her. ‘Yeah.'

‘I see it has your name on it.' He held it so close, she wondered if he was nearsighted. Then he turned it over and examined the back.

She couldn't feel more miserable, and so she continued to address the mug. ‘It's real. I mean, I don't remember filling it out, but I'm pretty sure I must have.'

He nodded.

‘But I didn't steal the Dunster Codex. I swear I didn't. I don't know why that ticket has surfaced now, or why Trista might have had it. But it doesn't mean what it looks like.'

The mug didn't respond. Neither did the man across the table.

‘And I would have asked Trista how she came to have it, only she disappeared before I could and I don't know if she's in real trouble or if she's just hiding because someone was questioning her.'

A thud alerted her to look up. The detective had dropped his meaty hand and was looking at her, not the slip of paper that now lay on the table.

‘Hold on, Miss Schwartz. Let's start at the beginning here, shall we?'

She shook her head, overwhelmed. ‘I'm not even sure where the beginning is.'

To her surprise, he chuckled. ‘Maybe it will help to know that I didn't want to speak to you today about the Dunster Coupon, or whatever this is.' He fingered the blue ticket. ‘I've got insurance geeks breathing down my neck about that library thing, but I do things my own way, and I'll be dam— I'm not going to let them rush me. But you're saying that this ticket thing relates to the theft – and that you think someone is trying to make it look like you're involved? That's interesting.'

‘I don't know about that.' Dulcie felt the blush creeping up her neck. ‘I mean, I haven't spoken to anyone about it – about that ticket. I could be totally wrong about all of that.'

The detective raised his eyebrows. The look did not inspire confidence, and Dulcie swallowed. This was what Suze had warned her about. This was what happened when she started talking without advice. ‘I think I spoke too soon,' was all she said.

The big man smiled, and for a moment, Dulcie felt worse. But the smile broadened into a grin, and he shook his head slowly, and she began to hope that maybe, just maybe, her neighborhood ogre was going to take pity on one small student.

‘Dulcie Schwartz, you really do have a knack for this, don't you?' He didn't wait for her to answer. ‘Getting into trouble, that is.'

‘Well, you said—' She managed a weak smile and a shrug. ‘You kept calling.'

‘And you thought  . . .' He shook his head and handed her back the blue ticket. ‘Look, we're working on the theft. That's a whole different kettle of fish. We wanted to talk with you about something different though. One of your colleagues, another graduate student—' He shuffled through some papers.