by Clea Simon
Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
A Selection of Recent Titles by Clea Simon
CATTERY ROW
CRIES AND WHISKERS
MEW IS FOR MURDER
SHADES OF GREY *
GREY MATTERS *
GREY ZONE *
GREY EXPECTATIONS *
*available from Severn House
GREY EXPECTATIONS
A Dulcie Schwartz feline mystery
Clea Simon
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2012
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2012 by Clea Simon.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Simon, Clea.
Grey expectations. – (Dulcie Schwartz feline mystery)
1. Schwartz, Dulcie (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-216-0 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8134-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-412-7 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Jon
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt gratitude to my readers – Lisa Susser, Chris Mesarch, Brett Milano, and Jon Garelick – for all your catches and comments. Thanks as well to Caroline Leavitt, Vicki Croke, and Naomi Yang for encouragement (and basil), and to my agent Colleen Mohyde, editor Rachel Simpson Hutchens, and the wonderfully supportive Lisa Jones, Frank Garelick, and Sophie Garelick. Purrs to you all, folks, and may the spirit of love watch over you.
ONE
The horses thundered on, as if drawn by traces unseen to their destination. Miles beyond the cresting ridge they had carried her without pause, but her thoughts lay elsewhere, lost in the inky night. Writing, she should be writing, and yet she journey’d on this dark path. Propelled to continue on, not by fear or base desire, but from a strange and wond’rous destiny, a dream that so moved her, she traveled. Exhausted, spent in both body and soul far beyond what mortal woman should endure, she clung to the carriage bench, its worn leather no longer soft beneath her hands as the seemingly everlasting night faded into dawn. An hour more, perhaps two, before the horses would be changed. An hour or two before she could—
‘Stop!’ Dulcie woke with a start. ‘Bad Esmé. That hurt!’
If anything could bring Dulcie back to the light of day, it was her kitten. Specifically, her kitten’s teeth. Dulcie had been dozing, lost in a dream. Oblivious to the book on her lap, she must have let her hand slide off the page to dangle by her side. Maybe she’d even twitched. At any rate, she liked to think there had been a provocation. Dulcie didn’t want to believe the little tuxedo cat would just bite her for no reason.
‘No!’ She tried to sound firm, shaking her finger in what she intended as a stern gesture. ‘No biting. No. Bad kit—’ Dulcie stopped herself. The last thing she wanted was for the young animal to develop self-esteem issues. Unlikely, true, but when acting in loco parentis one couldn’t be too careful. ‘Bad behavior,’ she corrected herself, as well as the young feline. ‘Biting is a bad thing to do.’
But the extended digit offered too much temptation, and the kitten grabbed it. And while the claws in her neat white paws were sheathed, her teeth sunk into soft flesh.
‘Ow!’ Dulcie tried to extricate her hand, all thoughts of socially correct pet parenting momentarily shelved. ‘Esmé!’ Every move, though, only served to egg on the overexcited kitten, who now had her front legs wrapped around the offending hand. ‘Let go!’
The little cat only held on tighter and started to kick with her white hind booties. In desperation, Dulcie pulled back – and knocked the heavy book on her lap to the floor. The ensuing ‘thump’ finally served to interrupt the kitten’s frenzy, distracting her enough to allow Dulcie to free herself.
Deprived of prey, the cat sat back and eyed her person. Like the kitten, Dulcie was on the small side, with a tendency toward plumpness. Unlike the kitten, Dulcie’s hair was brown, with a reddish cast and a pronounced tendency to curl, especially as late May brought the first wave of humidity to the city. For a moment, though, the two resembled each other. Esmé hesitating, as if wondering where to pounce next. Dulcie considering her small but rambunctious pet. And then, as if heeding some inner summons, the kitten turned and bounded out of the room, allowing Dulcie to turn her attention back to work.
Instead, with a smile, Dulcie watched the kitten bounce off. Rubbing the red marks those tiny teeth had left, she realized no real harm had been done
. It wasn’t as if the kitten’s antics had interrupted anything productive. The afternoon thus far had been a waste, and the kitten might have even done her a service, waking her from her nap. The warm breeze coming in the living room window only hinted at more dreams to come, and the book at her feet suddenly looked too heavy to lift.
She should get back to work – specifically to the large and unpromising book on the floor beside her. Dulcie knew that. If only the reading waiting for her between those dull brown covers was just a little more exciting. If only, she admitted with a sigh, she could simply dive back into her long-time favorite adventure, The Ravages of Umbria. That book might have just as colorless a cover – Dulcie looked over at the well-worn edition that always graced her desk – but its insides were anything but.
Set in a haunted version of Italy that existed in fantasy only, The Ravages featured a beleaguered noblewoman who had to save herself from a panoply of dangers, including not only the usual ghosts and monks, but also the sneaky betrayal of an unfaithful friend. And the only tools she had at her disposal were her own wits. Unusual for her era, Hermetria – the heroine of The Ravages – was the kind of character Dulcie could really believe in. Only two segments of the book survived, which put off more casual readers, but for Dulcie, the lack of a definitive ending made the novel more compelling. Even more fascinating, the author, who had managed to remain anonymous for two centuries, just might have lived a life that was almost as tumultuous as her heroine’s – although probably with fewer ghosts.
And that’s where both the excitement and the trouble lay. A graduate student doing her dissertation on the Gothic fiction of the late eighteenth century, Dulcie was not only a fan of the headstrong heroine, she was also hot in pursuit of the author. Recently, she sometimes almost felt like she’d pinned the nameless writer down, that she was on the brink of solving a two-hundred-year-old literary mystery. She’d even begun dreaming about her, although in truth she couldn’t be sure if her dreams were about the author, her heroine – or some fevered version of herself as she struggled with her doctoral thesis. Some people – her boyfriend was one – thought she’d gotten a bit too close to the book to retain any kind of academic objectivity about its nameless author. But why spend five, six, even seven years of your life studying something if you didn’t love it? Why tackle a mystery if you didn’t feel you had some insight into how it could be solved?
These weren’t questions Chris, her sweetie, had answers for – but his gentle criticism still had some validity. Which was why she had put today aside for the dull necessity of non-fiction research. Specifically, in this case, textual analysis of decidedly un-fun writing. Over the course of the last year, Dulcie had found some real clues as to who her mysterious author might be – but only clues. So, in an effort to bolster her theories, Dulcie was looking for traces of the author in political writings of the day, in particular some radical pamphlets to which her author might have contributed. Or might not have, which would probably prove something, too, although Dulcie didn’t even want to think about that possibility just yet.
Before her unscheduled nap – and Esmé’s interruption – Dulcie had already spent the greater part of the day with the book in front of her – a collection of two-hundred-year-old essays from the fledgling United States. To say they weren’t the most thrilling reading would be akin to saying Esmé wasn’t the tamest of pets, but . . .
Writing a thesis wasn’t supposed to be all fun and games. Or even ghosts and goblins, she reminded herself. In fact, it was the discipline of academic life – the rigor – that had first attracted Dulcie. Well, that and the realization that she might be able to make a living with the novels she loved.
Only the week before, Dulcie had finally screwed herself up to begin the actual writing of what was essentially the most important paper of her academic career. She’d begun with discipline on the Monday morning, planting herself and her laptop on the kitchen table. It had started slowly, and she’d spent so much time staring into space that even the cat had seemed bored by her. But the effort had paid off: by Friday, she was blissfully typing away on an early chapter about the novel itself. She’d been so caught up in her work that she still had her breakfast coffee mug by her side when she’d looked up to find her boyfriend watching her sometime after eight that night – but she also had a decent draft of the chapter, the first of a projected twenty.
She’d given herself the weekend off after that, but was determined to apply that same discipline to her next bit of research. Admittedly, Monday had been a bit of a waste. It was hard to change streams, she told herself, from writing to researching once again. But now it was time to put her money where her mouth was. Or, to be somewhat more accurate, to put her eyes where her ideas were. With another sigh and a quick glance around – the kitten still had not returned – she resigned herself to the inevitable. She picked up the bound volume and opened it.
Two pages in, she found her eyes growing heavy again. Out of three hundred pages, she had – she flicked through the bound volume – two-hundred eighty left. For a fleeting moment, Dulcie admitted just how grateful she had been for the kitten’s violent interruption. And, as if she had picked up on some silent cue, Esmé suddenly appeared again, standing on her round haunches to bat at the air.
‘You know you’re not supposed to play like that, kitty.’ Dulcie smiled at the sight of the little cat, white belly exposed as she reared up. But she resisted the urge to shadow-box with the cat. ‘You know that.’
Esmé tilted her head to look up at her, and for a moment, Dulcie was sure the little tuxedo cat understood her. There were always signs. After all, Esmé had last attacked when Dulcie had been sleeping – and she should have been working. Not to mention that she’d been in a most distressing part of the recurring dream. And now, here the little cat was again, just when Dulcie had been thinking of her. Was Esmé psychic? Dulcie toyed with the idea – and then dismissed it. The little tuxedo cat might not have quite the communicative powers of her predecessor, the late great longhair Mr Grey, but she had revealed an ability to communicate telepathically on occasion. Still that was only when Esmé – short for Her Most Royal Principessa Esmeralda – wanted to make herself heard. Not particularly in response to any cue she had picked up from Dulcie. As much as Dulcie might have hoped the little tuxedo cat would grow into a more empathic pet, it was infinitely more likely that the cat was responding to something more prosaic. Both times, in some subtle, unconscious way, she had probably given the little beast a signal that she was available for play.
Esmé demanded Dulcie’s attention when she wanted it, Dulcie realized, nursing her hand. And only when it served her purpose.
‘Sometimes I feel like you can talk, when you want to.’ Dulcie got up to wash her hand. Telepathic or not, Esmé could bite. ‘Listening, however, is a whole different story.’
‘Why does she talk like that to me?’ While Dulcie hummed to herself in the bathroom, the tuxedo cat watched, wondering. ‘Doesn’t she know that I’m only doing my job?’
Over the humming and the gurgle of the tap, Dulcie didn’t hear the series of small peeps and squeaks that were the kitten’s preferred method of communication. A strange sense of well-being came over her, however, as another voice responded. She didn’t hear it – only Esmé did – but as she dried her hands and thought, once more, about the tasks of the day, they all seemed feasible somehow, as if she might just get everything done. Once again, all seemed right with the world.
‘She doesn’t mean to be difficult, little one,’ the other voice purred into a set of fuzzy black ears. ‘She has great trials coming up, and she will need you – and appreciate your efforts – then.’
TWO
By the time the sun had begun to sink, the warm feeling had faded, replaced by the kind of mind-numbing boredom that would have made the intrusion of feline fangs welcome. However, Esmé was napping by then, her white nose tucked neatly beneath her black tuft of a tail, right in the center of Dulcie’
s desk.
‘What is it about cats and paper?’ Dulcie mused. One green eye opened, but the little cat knew better than to venture an answer. She might have known one wasn’t necessary, for just then, the front door slammed open, knocking into the wall. And although cats are supposed to be averse to loud noises, the commotion drew the attention of the little beast, who rose in a flash and scampered off toward the tall and lanky young man who stepped in.
‘I’m home!’ Chris announced, redundantly. ‘And I’ve got dumplings!’
Dulcie rose a little more slowly and went to greet her boyfriend. He was a dear, and she knew those dumplings – from Mary Chung’s, if she wasn’t mistaken – were a peace offering. Since moving in together two months before, they’d discovered some unpleasant differences. While their tolerance for bookish mess was fairly equal, for example, Dulcie had found herself washing a sink’s worth of old and crusty dishes a few times too often. And while Dulcie didn’t consider herself a girly girl by any means – her upbringing on an Oregon commune hadn’t included training in lipstick or flirting – her love for long, hot showers had made Chris late for class more than once. Plus, it was likely Chris’s rough-housing that had made the kitten so wild. A cat, Dulcie had told him more than once, is not a dog.
As the semester wound down, however, they’d both found themselves laughing more than they grumbled. And Tuesday-night dumplings – eaten with recyclable chopsticks – were one of their new traditions. And so she greeted him with a kiss, taking the takeout bag into the kitchen as he shed his jacket and backpack. Placing it on the counter, she opened it. Dumplings and . . . she took out a plastic container of spicy soup.
‘Yes!’ she called out, knowing Chris would understand. This wasn’t just for his benefit, however, and with a little more bounce in her step, she quickly gathered the bowls and utensils necessary for their feast. Those pamphlets would go down a lot easier after some suan la chow show.
