Grey Expectations (3 page)

Maybe that's what had gotten Trista in trouble, Dulcie thought as she made her way down the street. Maybe someone had spread a nasty rumor about her friend – not because of anything to do with Roland Galveston, but to hurt Trista. Only, murder was a pretty serious accusation to hurl at someone, wasn't it?

Under ordinary conditions, Trista would have been laughing at the idea. Somewhat tougher than her curly-haired friend, Trista would have told Dulcie that it sounded ‘like one of your books, Dulce. Only, without a ghost.'

The breeze off the river was cool, even in the fading sun, and Dulcie shivered again, pulling the collar of the oatmeal sweater up around her neck. This wasn't a story from one of her books. Dulcie not only had some experience with crimes at the university, she also knew a bit more about ghosts than she'd ever confessed to her friend. But this time, she hadn't been given a clue as to what was really going on. All she knew was that one of her colleagues was dead. And when her friend had called, she hadn't been laughing.

FOUR

T
rista had dried her tears by the time Dulcie arrived, but Dulcie almost wished she hadn't. The blonde Victorian had let her in and had been pacing since, despite her friend's repeated requests for her to sit.

‘I can't, Dulce,' Trista had said, finally, when Dulcie had gone so far as to take her arm. ‘I'm just too freaked out!'

Dulcie looked at her friend, unsure of what to say. Trista had always been a bit of a contradiction. Most of the English department grad students were rather geeky. Dulcie knew that was one reason she was comfortable there, among bookworms like herself. And although the small department was prey to all the usual gossip and intrigues, it was usually a friendly place. If Dulcie hadn't been a confirmed cat person, she'd thought, on more than one occasion, that she could easily see them all as dormice – burrowing away into some dark, private corner of a great library.

Trista, though, had stood out from the start. Visually, her short spiky bleached hair and figure-baring outfits were out of place among their rather shaggy and decidedly unfashionable lot. And her piercings – starting with the gold stud in her nose – tended to startle those who only knew her area of expertise. The contrast went beyond the visual: unlike most of their quiet colleagues, Trista had always been brash. A little louder, a little more outspoken than anyone else in the department, Trista scared a good many of their colleagues – the men especially. But Dulcie, who had suffered with her through qualifying exams and horrendous teaching loads, knew a different side of the slight blonde. Trista worked at her tough demeanor. If she was pacing, it was because she was terrified. Because she didn't dare say so, and because she couldn't make a run for it.

‘Tris, please. You're making me dizzy.' As much as Dulcie sympathized, her friend's manic movement was interrupting her own thought process. ‘Please, sit here and tell me once again what happened.'

With a sigh that Dulcie hoped let off some of the pressure inside, Trista collapsed on the sofa. That she immediately picked up a pencil and began to twirl it between her fingers was annoying, but Dulcie let that go – for Trista had begun to talk.

‘You know about the Rattigan prize, right?' The question was rhetorical, although Dulcie nodded anyway. Everyone in the department knew about the Rattigan – one of the few academic honors that still came with a substantial stipend. ‘And you know I'm almost ready to defend, right?' Another nod. Trista had pulled slightly ahead of her friend in the race to finish her doctoral dissertation. ‘Well, that's it.'

With that, she clamped her mouth shut, but not before Dulcie saw the telltale tremor in her lips. ‘Oh, Tris!' Dulcie's heart went out to her friend, and she moved closer just in time. Trista broke out sobbing once again, and Dulcie patted her back while she tried to piece everything together.

Trista, she knew, had been working all out through the winter, pushing herself past the point of exhaustion. Although her thesis wasn't anything Dulcie cared about – something about architectural details in the mid-Victorian novel – Dulcie had been impressed by how comprehensive Trista's research had been. She had gotten permission to read rare manuscripts – first drafts of books that were now long forgotten – and she had backed this primary research up with supporting material, from diaries to contemporary reviews. The Victorians, Dulcie knew this much, saved everything – and Trista had done her best to read it all, as well as keep up with all the modern scholars in her field. It had been an impressive feat, and anyone who looked over at the slight, pierced blonde and thought ‘airhead' was going to have another thought coming once she published.

Trista started hiccuping, and Dulcie reached for the Kleenex. Publishing. That was key, but Trista seemed to have a clear road ahead of her. Once she defended her thesis, she could revise it – two university presses had already approached her, an almost unheard of bounty. And the Rattigan? Nothing in life was ever certain, but Trista was viewed in the department as the likely winner. In addition to the money – a rarity as the university increasingly shuffled to protect its dwindling endowment – the one-year post-doc that came with it was seen as a stepping stone to a tenure track position. And for Trista, Dulcie knew, it meant one more year in Cambridge, where her boyfriend Jerry was finishing his own graduate studies. It meant, in brief, happiness.

Trista's hiccups had subsided, and Dulcie suggested tea. As she made her way into Trista's kitchen, she added Roland Galveston to the equation. The newcomer was smart, sure, but had he been a threat to Trista? Academic positions were few and far between, but Dulcie didn't think she was being too much of a Pollyanna to assume that there might be jobs for both of them.

As she waited for the water to boil, she forced herself to think rationally. That was, after all, supposed to be her forte. What were Trista's chances – and how did Roland affect them? Not everyone became a professor, after all; Dulcie had heard of several doctorates and almost-doctorates who dropped out, overwhelmed either by the pressure or the tide of rejections. That didn't mean the end of the world. Last fall, an all-but-dissertation had made a big deal about going on to business school, and a recent grad had landed a position with a ritzy New York auction house, appraising rare books. Dulcie rummaged through the cabinet, looking for clean mugs. Trista was dedicated. Smart. She was also a mess. Academia hadn't been kind to her.

Was it the wrong path for her friend? No; she shook her head. Trista was no more likely than Dulcie to give up her dream of a scholar's life. But would she have felt threatened by Roland Galveston?

If anything, Jerry had seemed more concerned about the newcomer than his girlfriend had, as the dashing Texan had shown what might have been more than a scholarly interest in his pretty colleague. Could that mean that Jerry  . . .? As she returned with two mugs of peppermint tea, Dulcie realized she had to gather a little more info.

‘Tris, if you can, would you run through it again?' She sipped her tea gingerly and still managed to burn her lip. Running her tongue over the tender spot, she thought about what Trista had already told her. Now that her friend had calmed down, she was wondering if she had missed something. ‘I mean, well, did they find – um – something?'

Another hiccup. ‘I'm not sure. There were two of them, both plain clothes. They showed up saying they had questions. Questions concerning “the late Roland Galveston”. And the way they looked at me was enough. Dulcie, I think they didn't have enough to charge me, but was clear they thought I had done something. One of the cops was asking about the Rattigan, about my research habits.' She took a swallow of her own tea, oblivious to the heat. ‘He even asked about Jerry and our plans. Like, were we hurting for money.'

‘That's crazy. Everyone we know is broke.' It struck her that Tris still hadn't answered her question. ‘But, Tris, do they even know—' Dulcie was suddenly at a loss for words. ‘I mean, did they find a body or something?'

Another shake of the head. ‘I don't know, Dulcie. I don't know
anything
. All I know is the way they referred to him – to Roland – and then the way they questioned me. And they told me not to leave town.'

Dulcie was about to dismiss that as so much dramatic nonsense, when it hit her. Trista
had
to leave town – leave the state, actually. She was scheduled to give a lecture at Brown University in Providence in a few days. While Tris was hoping for the Rattigan, she couldn't count on it, and such guest appearances were the academic equivalent of Broadway auditions. If nothing was certain, if Trista wasn't being charged with anything, surely, the police would make an exception for that.

‘The Kiplinger Lecture?' She didn't have to say more.

Trista only shrugged. ‘I didn't dare ask. I mean, it's just a job. It's not worth getting arrested over. Is it?'

‘I don't know.' Dulcie tried her tea again. This was getting serious. ‘Have you talked to anyone at the legal clinic? Do you want me to call Suze?' Dulcie's former room-mate would be graduating from the law school in a few weeks, but Dulcie knew she'd make time to help a friend.

If the friend wanted help. Trista only shrugged. ‘I don't know. I really don't, Dulce. I mean, what can they do?'

Dulcie opened her mouth – and then shut it. Trista was upset enough. ‘Why don't we start at the beginning?' she asked instead. ‘Tell me exactly what happened when the police came. Tell me what they said.'

Still sniffling, Trista ran through it all again. From the first knock on her door by the plain-clothes detectives to her panicked call. An ordinary Tuesday evening had been utterly destroyed. The whole visit – Dulcie did some quick calculating – had probably only taken about twenty minutes.

‘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.