Grey Expectations

by Clea Simon

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grey.’ Maybe he was no longer exclusively her pet. For now, this was enough. Warmed by the conviction that she was not alone – that someone (well, maybe two someones) was looking out for her, she felt her fear begin to spark into anger.

  She had plenty of tinder to fuel the fire. After all, the idea that the police were looking for her was ridiculous. She was no criminal. She wasn’t fleeing anybody. And no matter what Professor Coffin implied, she was no thief.

  Plus, she was busy! Dulcie looked down at her burger with a new determination. She reached for the hot sauce and let it pour, only noticing afterward that it looked disturbingly like blood. But it wasn’t. She took an angry bite. She hadn’t hurt anyone. The pepper spurred her on. She had done nothing wrong, and she had nothing to say to the police. All Trista had said—

  Trista. That must be why her friend hadn’t showed up. She was probably talking to the police now; she had probably let the time get away from her. That was OK; this was all serious enough that Dulcie could forgive her friend. Roland Galveston might be mixed up in something, but he wasn’t dead – and so Trista couldn’t be charged with murder. She’d get everything cleared up.

  Nobody had been killed. Dulcie found she could eat again and took another satisfying bite. Lala was the best. Another mouthful, and she remembered how hungry she was. Which was just as well, because the three-bean burger was really a two-fister, and there was no point in putting it back on the plate once it was dressed with all that lovely hot sauce.

  So when her phone rang again two minutes later, she looked at it with longing – but not too much. Probably Chris again. He probably wanted to apologize for scaring her. Maybe he wanted to make plans for later. But when she had chased a particularly spicy mouthful with some of Lala’s limeade and wiped her hands as well as she could, she didn’t find the number she expected on the phone. Neither their apartment nor Chris’s phone started with the familiar ‘495’ exchange. Whoever had called had been using a university phone, and it was with a bit of curiosity – and still-sticky hands – that she dialed voicemail.

  There was no message, and as she once again raised the messy burger to her lips, Dulcie mulled over the possibilities. Was there something happening at the departmental offices that Nancy wanted her to know about? Was it Thorpe? She could try the number – later. Lala’s was too busy for her to claim counter space for anything but the serious work of eating. As she chewed another mouthful, she considered what else to do with her day. She could head back to the library. Something about the underground atmosphere was conducive to serious reading. Or she could go to her office. She had the blue volume in her bag, and if she needed a break, the last of the final exams waited for her red pencil.

  Maybe it was the thought of grading, or maybe it was that, now she had quelled her cravings, she could see that the day outside was golden, the sky beautiful and bright with promise. Or maybe, to be honest, it was that she was creeped out by what Chris had said. Dodging the looks from waiting patrons, she picked up the phone again. That last call was weighing on her. If only she had recognized the extension. If only the caller had left a message.

  Then it hit her: she had called Roland last night and asked him to ring her. She’d called the number listed in the student directory – a home phone or cell. But maybe his own phone was broken. Maybe his cell had been stolen and he was catching up from a university extension, holed up in some office on campus. That had to be it. And because her own message had been so vague, he hadn’t left a message of his own. Maybe he even knew that he’d been outed by Coffin. Maybe he was on the run, reaching out to a colleague . . .

  Wiping her hand one more time on the greasy napkin, she hit redial and waited for two, then three rings. Roland had just called her; he had to answer. Four rings, and the phone picked up.

  ‘Roland?’ Finally, all this mystery would be put to rest.

  ‘University Police. How may I direct your call?’

  Dulcie sat there, the café buzzing about her, frozen.

  ‘Hello?’ Something brushed against her, hard, and she nearly fell off her stool. A woman muttered as she squeezed in beside her.

  ‘Hello? University Police.’

  Fumbling with hands that had suddenly turned to ice, Dulcie hung up.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Mr Grey, are you there?’

  Dulcie had run out to the street, leaving the last of her burger behind. Not even Lala’s surprised face, looking up from behind the counter, could stop her, so desperate was she to get out – to get away.

  ‘Mr Grey? I could really use some help here.’ She’d run out of breath halfway through the Yard. Out of ideas, too. Dropping the phone back into her bag as if it were contaminated, she had wanted to get away. Now that she had calmed down a little, it registered that her first panicked thought – that the police could somehow trace her, that they would be converging on the sandwich shop within seconds – had faded. Trista’s odd experience had left her spooked, and the mix-up with the Dunster Codex seemed to threaten them all. Still, her initial destination – the basement office she shared with Lloyd – no longer seemed like such a good idea. While it was unlikely that the police would track her to a Harvard Square eatery, they very well might have someone waiting at her office. Especially – she looked at her watch – since her office hours were supposed to start in twenty minutes.

  ‘Are you out there?’ She glanced around the campus, which resembled a park more than ever now that the grounds crew were getting it ready for Commencement. ‘Mr Grey?’ A movement behind a tree caught her eye, but it was only a squirrel. Stepping over a string barrier – the grounds crew were serious about their reseeding efforts – she leaned back against a tall elm. At least the Yard was quiet and shady, the tree bark scratchy through her cotton shirt. With her eyes closed, she could almost pretend she was back home.

  ‘Home, little one?’

  ‘You know what I mean. The commune.’ For a moment, resting there, this conversation seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Then it hit her, and she jerked herself up. ‘Mr Grey!’

  ‘Now, now.’ The voice came from behind her, as if she had been reclining on the sofa and the graceful grey cat had come walking along its narrow back. She waited for the brush of fur as he settled behind her. Instead, she felt a slight breeze, as if he were moving away, and heard a low rumble, almost more growl than purr.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She slumped back against the tree. ‘I’m just scared. The department has us all thinking we’re guilty until proven innocent, and now the police are looking for me. And—’ She swallowed, the lump in her throat making her pause as much as her fear of chasing her dear friend away. ‘And, well, you hardly talk to me any more, Mr Grey. You talk to Chris.’

  She hadn’t meant it to sound like that, to sound so jealous and petty, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Maybe Mr Grey sensed that, because instead of the claw swipe she half expected, all she heard was a quizzical, ‘Mrup?’

  ‘You warned him, but not me. You always seem to be talking to him.’

  ‘He’s part of your life now, little one. Don’t you trust him?’

  Dulcie swallowed again, the unshed tears going down hard. ‘I do, Mr Grey. You know I do. I just—’ She paused, trying to find the right words for the confused flood of feelings washing over her. Her voice had shrunk to just above a whisper. Even so, her own words embarrassed her. ‘I don’t want to share you.’

  The truth out, she held her breath. Either he would comfort her, reassure her of his continued presence in her life – and of the specialness of their relationship. Or he would rebuke her. But instead of his gentle voice, or the touch of fur or fang, she heard a louder, human voice.

  ‘Dulcie! There you are!’ It was Lloyd, coming from the direction of the office. Of course, he would have vacated it so she could meet with her students. ‘I was hoping to catch you.’

  ‘Hey.’ Plastering a smile on her face, she nodded at
her friend. ‘What’s up? Are they lining up for my sage advice?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head, and she felt her heart sink. ‘Nothing so pleasant. A cop came by and checked out when your office hours were. He was asking me about your habits, your friends. Like you’d know any dealers!’

  ‘Dealers?’ This wasn’t making sense. ‘Like, drugs?’

  ‘Dealers, collectors. The kind of people who would pay big money for something like . . .’ His voice dropped. ‘You know, the Dunster Codex.’

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’ Dulcie’s head spun. ‘I can’t even remember the last time I was in the Mildon room.’

  ‘I pretty much told him that. Told him that your area of expertise didn’t usually take you into special collections, but he kept asking.’ Lloyd glanced over his shoulder, and Dulcie could tell he was spooked. ‘But there are other things, Dulcie. Strange things.’ He wiped away the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his upper lip. ‘Things I think you might have some, um, unique insight into.’

  ‘What?’ Dulcie felt her stomach sink. That burger might not have been the best move.

  ‘You know I used to work in Circulation, right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I know the girl who got my old job, and she said—’ He looked around again and licked his lips. ‘She said the Codex had moved recently.’

  ‘So, maybe it was just misplaced, not stolen.’ She heard the relief in her voice, and heard it fade as Lloyd shook his head.

  ‘Dulcie, listen: I didn’t say it had been moved. I said “moved”. You know they keep it in its own case?’

  Dulcie nodded. ‘A humidity-controlled, fireproof casket.’ That last word caused her to stumble, but her friend didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Well, twice now, when they’ve opened the case, the Codex hasn’t been there, where it was supposed to be.’ His voice was low now, confidential. Dulcie had to lean in to hear what he said next: ‘And The Wetherly Ghost has been in its place.’

  ‘That – that makes no sense,’ Dulcie sputtered. She knew the classic Gothic too well. ‘The Wetherly Ghost doesn’t need that kind of protection, not their copy. It’s only about two hundred years old, and it’s paper – not parchment, or whatever the Codex is.’

  ‘I know.’ Lloyd was meeting her eyes now. ‘And there’s always some excuse for the Codex not being there. It’s being treated for mold, or there’s some new decay-preventative process or something. But you know what they say about it – and about the Wetherly.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Dulcie felt the frustration building. ‘The book may be about a haunting. But the thing itself is not haunted. It’s not even that good!’ She turned around, as if looking for help, but if Mr Grey was anywhere in the Yard, he was not prepared to debate the relative merits of eighteenth-century novels. ‘Look, I’ve seen the Mildon Wetherly. I’ve even read a copy of the book. It’s a perfectly ordinary Gothic by a perfectly ordinary author, Geoffrey Thomas. Thomas was the Earl of Richmond or something, so it was a big deal when he wrote it, but it’s not any great shakes as a novel. And the Mildon copy is a first edition, sure, but just a printed book. The only reason for it even being in the Mildon is that it may have belonged to Thomas Paine. May have.’

  ‘They say he was reading it when he died. Imagine, a total rationalist – a father of the country – reading a Gothic novel.’

  ‘He was a sick old man. Maybe he wanted something diverting.’ Dulcie was getting worked up. ‘Of course, I’d have thought The Ravages would have been a better choice.’

  ‘So, you don’t believe . . .?’ He left the rest of the question unspoken.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, I do believe that sometimes the spirits of those we love may linger.’ She chose the word carefully, hoping that Mr Grey would not take offense. ‘And, yes, the popular novels of that era do delve heavily into the supernatural. But, no, I do not believe that The Wetherly Ghost or any other books are themselves haunted.’

  Even as she spoke, Dulcie thought of her strange dreams. If some spirit didn’t linger, then what was the connection? Were her nocturnal visions simply the result of her scholarly immersion? It was too much to explain now to Lloyd, so she simply repeated herself. ‘Neither the Wetherly nor the Dunster Codex is haunted.’

  Something in her voice must have gotten through to Lloyd. He looked calmer now. ‘OK, then. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with it though. But Dulcie?’

  ‘What?’ She couldn’t stop thinking of that dream. Something had been troubling the woman. Haunting her.

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t tell the cops about the Wetherly when you talk to them. I mean, Coffin obviously thinks it’s a big deal, or it wouldn’t be in the Mildon to start with. And it is wrapped up in this, somehow.’

  ‘Maybe I just shouldn’t talk to the cops at all.’

  He winced at that, and Dulcie wondered just how much the university police had pressured her timid office mate. ‘Shouldn’t you just clear this up?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure they’re grilling everybody.’

  ‘Have they questioned you yet?’ She tried to catch her friend’s eye, but he was staring at the new sod that carpeted the ground.

  ‘Well, no. But I’m sure they just haven’t gotten to me on their list.’ He turned back toward her and held so still that she was sure he was lying. ‘You know, the longer you evade them, the worse this will be.’

  ‘I’m not—’ She stopped herself. She had been evading them. Not by not being home, but by not returning that call. ‘Look, I just want to find out what’s going on before I talk to anyone.’ The beginning of a plan began to form in her head. ‘Would you do me a favor?’

  Lloyd’s pale face blanched a bit more, and two distinct lines appeared above his brow. To his credit, though, the word that finally came out of his mouth was succinct. ‘Sure.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to do with any hauntings. Just – would you go back to the office and post a notice that I won’t be able to make my office hours today?’ Obvious relief washed over his face, but he still looked quizzical. ‘There’s someone who I think knows something about what is going on,’ she explained. ‘She was supposed to fill me in, but we didn’t meet up. If I can only find her, I’m sure I can get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Find the Dunster Codex?’ His high forehead wrinkled up even more.

  ‘Well, probably not.’ She smiled. Now that she had a clear plan, anything seemed possible. ‘But I am sure that there is a rational, reasonable explanation for everything that’s been going on. At the very least, I want to find out why the police are interested in me – that will be enough of a solution for one day.’

  FOURTEEN

  Once Lloyd had set off, Dulcie took a moment to plan her next step. No matter what everyone kept whispering, she didn’t believe for a minute that the Dunster Codex was haunted. It was a valuable object, and it had been stolen. The idea that one of her colleagues was involved was unfortunate, particularly because the likely suspect was the missing Roland Galveston. That didn’t mean there was anything supernatural going on, however. Merely criminal. And for better or worse, she was being dragged into it – just as Trista had been.

  Trista had known something, though. She’d been about to tell Dulcie after the meeting, but she hadn’t shown up. In the back of her mind, Dulcie could hear Suze’s voice. She knew what her former room-mate would say: Suze would want Dulcie to go to the police and tell them everything that had been going on with Trista. But Suze was all ready to graduate. And she’d only had to pass a bunch of exams. For all of Suze’s smarts, she didn’t know the pressure of writing a thesis, of defending it.

  As Dulcie saw it, the odds were good that Trista had already spoken with the cops. She had probably gone to them right after the departmental meeting. Maybe she was with them still. One thing Dulcie knew for sure: with everything that was happening, the last thing Trista needed was to have her friend calling up the university police to add her two cents and complicate the situation. No, Dul
cie would find out what was going on first – and then take the information directly to the police. But to do that, she had to find Trista. The question was: how?

  Like the rest of their colleagues, Trista also shared an office in the basement of Memorial Hall. And while it might be possible to sneak in, and slump past her own office, the risk of running into the police was just too high. After all, if the cops had bothered to look up her schedule, they almost certainly had a picture of her as well – the departmental facebook would have provided that, even if she wasn’t well remembered from her previous run-ins with the law.

  If it had been term time still, Trista might have been leading a section or some other kind of study group. This late in the spring, though, most of their tutoring duties were over. And since Trista was up against it with her defense, she’d probably be holed up reading. Which meant, really, she could be anywhere.

  Dulcie pulled out her cell. Didn’t this new age of communications mean that everyone was accessible all the time? But as her call went to Trista’s voicemail once again, she realized that by itself might be a clue. Trista, Dulcie knew, had a secret hideaway deep in the bowels of the science library.

  ‘It’s the best,’ Trista had confided in her only a few months before. ‘The only books I can read are the ones I bring in with me. And nobody knows where to find me.’

  Nobody but me, Dulcie thought, and headed up Mass Ave.

  Half a block away from the shuttle stop, Dulcie caught herself. If, in fact, the police were looking for her, might they have alerted the university drivers? With a shiver, Dulcie stepped back and waited while the crimson and white bus pulled up, disgorging three tired-looking undergrads. The little bus paused for a moment, and Dulcie weighed the risk against the walk. But, no, it was a fine day – and the twenty or so blocks would do her good.