Grey Expectations (22 page)

‘I know, Ms Schwartz. I know.' The big detective reached out and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Rather to her surprise, she felt a bit better. ‘I mean, I have a few questions here that you could help me with.'

She sniffed and nodded. ‘I can do that.'

‘Good. Now, Nancy here has already told us how she sent you down the hall to that back room. Can you take it from there?'

‘I
can
and I
will
 . . .' Instinct and training kicked in – Dulcie started to clean up the detective's slightly mangled diction – when what he'd said suddenly registered. Nancy hadn't sent her down the hall. In fact, the departmental secretary had tried to warn her off bothering the professor. That construction – at least if Rogovoy had gotten it right – sounded a little like the kindly secretary was covering for her.

‘Wait, Detective Rogovoy?' She looked up at him. He looked friendly today, but still  . . . ‘Am I a suspect?'

‘Now, now.' He did pet her this time, his hand thumping down on her shoulder. A dog person, obviously. ‘Let's just answer the questions, shall we?'

‘No, please.' She sat up straighter, and his hand fell back to his side. ‘I'd like to know. Are you considering me as a suspect?'

The big mouth opened, then shut. Dulcie watched with interest. It wasn't like Rogovoy could deny that Professor Coffin had been murdered. People just didn't fall backward and bleed all over the conference room floor like that.

‘He fell backwards,' she said. The thoughts came together suddenly. ‘That's why I kept seeing his face as upside down. He must have been looking at the back door – the door to the porch.'

Once again, her treacherous memory replayed the scene. She had opened the door and seen something – something that she couldn't quite parse. She'd stepped in, trying to make sense of the scene. That's when she'd realized she'd been stepping in something – stepping in blood. And her eyes had traveled from her feet across the floor to where Gustav Coffin had lain sprawled on his back. How had she known he was dead?

‘There was a big stain,' she remembered. ‘A big stain in the middle of his belly. That must have been where all the blood came from. Someone must have shot him or – no, Nancy would have heard. Someone must have stabbed him with something. And the way he was lying, looking toward the back door? Someone must have come in from the porch. Maybe they'd been talking – or fighting. Or, no, he'd heard a noise. Turned, only to be surprised—'

‘Ms Schwartz, please.' The broad hand was raised again and, seeing it, Dulcie stopped. ‘Please. It is my job to figure out the chain of events. What we would really like you to do, how you could really help us, is to just talk us through what happened. You walked down the hallway and opened the door. You saw – what you saw. But did you see anything else? Anyone else? And did you hear anything? Maybe before you opened the door? If not a shot, then voices, maybe? Maybe you thought somebody said to come in?'

‘No.' She shook her head, suddenly very, very tired. ‘Everything was quiet. There was nobody there. Just me – and the late Professor Coffin.'

THIRTY-FIVE

‘
S
he saw it, Chris. Lucy saw it.'

By the time the detective had finally let her go, Chris was waiting with a cab. It had been all Nancy could do to hold him back, she'd said as she rewrapped the blanket around Dulcie and generally clucked her into the taxi. Dulcie had been grateful, but once home, she had thrown off the extra covering to pace around the kitchen. ‘She saw me covered in blood. But there was more – a journey, only not voluntary. Like I was being kidnapped or carried away or something.'

‘Dulcie, please.' Chris turned from the oven, a mug of cocoa in hand. ‘Here, sweetie, drink this.'

‘It's nearly June,' she said, taking it anyway. ‘Oh, good.'

‘Now, let's go sit.' He guided her into the living room and on to the sofa, where Esmé, who appeared to have been waiting, jumped into her lap. ‘Dulcie—'

‘Don't you start, too, Chris Sorenson.' She put the mug down and absent-mindedly began to stroke the cat. ‘I know, my mother's usually as loony as they get. Or, well, lonely, anyway. But her dream and my dream have both touched on too many of the same themes recently. She even saw a carriage, a closed carriage.'

‘I know, a journey. Against your will.' Chris reached for the mug and pushed it back into Dulcie's hand. She sipped, almost without thinking, and he continued. ‘But, well, that's not that uncommon a metaphor. Especially at this time of year. I mean, think of it this way: your best friend is graduating. Another friend is about to defend her thesis—'

‘Oh my god, Trista!' The cocoa slopped over the side as Dulcie put the mug down roughly. Esmé looked up in surprise. ‘Has Jerry heard anything?'

Chris shook his head. ‘No, nothing. He's climbing the walls. If she doesn't show up before tomorrow, he can report her as missing, but I don't know how he'll last that long. I assume you haven't heard anything?'

‘Me? No. I thought I saw her, but  . . .' She paused. Had she even checked her phone this morning? After the call from Lucy, she'd turned it off. Maybe there was a message.

The phone took forever to boot up, or at least it seemed that way to Dulcie.

Chris stroked the cat, who seemed to have picked up on his agitation, and Chris let loose with a soft, ‘Yes!' when the voicemail icon appeared.

‘Hang on.' Dulcie thumbed in the numbers. Two missed calls, both from an unrecognized number. ‘Neither of these are Trista,' she said. ‘I don't know who this is.' Dulcie turned toward her boyfriend, worry etching her face. ‘Let me try her again.' She punched in the familiar digits, all the while wondering at herself. Her friend was missing, and she hadn't been trying to reach her? Hadn't been worried? Hadn't been thinking of her?

‘You've been busy.' Chris might as well have read her mind, and he draped an arm around her and the cat both as they heard the call go straight to Trista's voicemail. ‘Hey, maybe she tried you on a different phone. Maybe she left a message?' Chris looked like he wanted to reassure her, if he could.

‘You're right!' Dulcie disconnected while Trista's recorded voice was still talking and hit the buttons for her own messages as Esmé settled on her hand.

‘Hi, uh, Dulcie?' The male voice wasn't familiar. Dulcie looked at Chris and shrugged. ‘You called? I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. But if you want to, well, we can talk or get together or something.'

The pause that followed lasted so long, Dulcie thought the caller had disconnected. She worked her hand out from under Esmé, but just as she was about to hang up, he came back. ‘Oh, Dulcie? Sorry. This is, well, you know me as Roland. Roland Galveston.'

THIRTY-SIX

‘
D
ulcie, please tell me you're not serious.' Chris was hovering as Dulcie put on a clean sneaker and laced it up. ‘It isn't safe. He could be the one – he has a motive.'

‘I know, but  . . .' She hesitated, unable to explain her instinct. ‘I just don't see it. For starters, he's a little guy. A grad student like us.'

Chris looked unconvinced.

‘Besides, we're meeting at the Bagelry.' She retrieved the other sneaker from Esmé, who had pinned its lace to the ground. ‘It's very public. Very open.'

He didn't seem any happier. ‘At least let me go with you. I could follow you. Be your tail.'

She shook her head. Chris was too tall to attempt stealth. ‘If he sees you, he might bolt. Besides, don't you have a tutoring session at noon?'

‘You could wait.'

He looked so miserable, she almost relented. Despite the horror of the morning, she just couldn't see jolly Roland Galveston as a murderer. There was no sense trying to convince Chris of that, though. Instead, she gave him a hug. ‘I don't want to risk losing him.' She finished her shoes and stood, determined. ‘He suggested we meet soon. For all we know, he's leaving town this afternoon.'

‘Maybe he has to,' Chris muttered. ‘Just promise me one thing,' he said, a little more loudly, as he helped her back into her sweater. ‘Just don't get into a car with him.'

‘I promise.' She gave him a kiss and headed toward the door. ‘And the next time you see me, I should have some answers. And a dozen bagels.'

With a jaunty wave she was out the door. It was only as the door closed behind her that she felt a momentary tingle of anxiety. Maybe it was the sound of the latch catching – ca-LICK – or maybe it was the sight of the shoes she had left on the mat, sticky and brown at their edges.

‘It doesn't matter now,' she told herself and marched down to the street.

The Bagelry had been her idea. Roland – or whatever she was supposed to call him – had wanted a place that was public, but not mobbed by students. That left out Lala's and the Greenhouse, but as Dulcie walked toward the T, she congratulated herself on the choice. Only about a half mile past the university – one subway stop – the little bagel shop had multiple advantages. Situated on a corner, two of its walls were windows, which had calmed the worst of Chris's anxieties. And although the little storefront had several tables, few people actually sat and ate there. Besides, after the trauma of the morning, Dulcie was famished. A fat lox sandwich, rich with cream cheese and red onion, would remove the last of her jitters about meeting her missing colleague.

It wasn't that she wasn't still shaken. In fact, as she descended into the Central Square T stop, someone had jostled her, a young man rushing past, and a scream – or something very close – had caused her throat to close up. She'd had to grab the escalator rail tightly to keep from falling down. Then she'd seen him run into the arms of a woman, the happy couple embracing. The woman had just gotten off an inbound train, and she'd squealed in happiness as they'd embraced. Only then had Dulcie been able to continue to her own train, and her breathing still hadn't quite settled back to normal.

That sight had made her think of Chris, though. And of Esmé, who had stood up to push her wet nose into Dulcie's hand as she neared the door – an old trick of Mr Grey's that she and Suze had named ‘the autopet'. And while she still felt a little dislocated in time – Chris had called it, simply, ‘shock' – she knew that she would feel better doing something, rather than sitting around. Besides, she was curious. And Roland – or whatever his name was – might know something about Trista.

Still, it was with an odd jumble of emotions that she peered through the glass door at the colleague formerly known as Roland Galveston. Slumped over one of the little tables, he looked smaller than she remembered. Less jaunty. He was staring at a cardboard coffee cup and hadn't seen her, and for a moment she thought about retreating. Going home. She certainly had enough reason to take it easy, and the man waiting for her just might be a murderer. She should probably have reported his phone call to the police – or at least the department.

She hesitated and stepped backward – into a woman in a pink jogging outfit. ‘'Scuse!' the woman yelled, earbuds blasting tinny music as she reached for the door.

Roland looked up, and in that moment, Dulcie knew she would go in. There was nothing about her colleague that was at all threatening. His face was lined with fatigue, but he attempted a smile as he raised his hand in a half-hearted wave, and she followed the jogger in.

‘Dulcie. Thanks.' He stood to greet her. Automatically, she took a step away, then stopped herself. Her colleague looked so normal  . . .

‘Hi.' She wasn't sure what name to use. ‘Um, I'm going to get something to eat, OK?'

‘Yeah, sure.' He'd felt her momentary withdrawal, she could tell by the way his face fell. But he sat back down as she went up to the counter to order.

‘Nova, please.' But before she could specify a poppy-seed bagel, Dulcie was struck by an odd thought. Maybe she shouldn't be questioning Roland directly. After all, he had been caught lying. She didn't see him as a killer, but she couldn't be sure she should trust him. Maybe  . . .

‘Miss?' The counter guy was waiting, a waxed paper covered with smoked fish in his hand.

‘Poppy seed, low-fat cream cheese, onions,' she recited automatically. Maybe she should try a more subversive tactic. Something like Hermetria, the heroine of
The Ravages,
would use. ‘Oh, and bean sprouts?'

While she waited for her lunch to be assembled, Dulcie tried to think of a plan. In
The Ravages
, Hermetria had been deceived by her companion Demetria, who was secretly plotting to steal what remained of her fortune – and drive her mad, to boot. Of course, Hermetria uncovered Demetria's duplicity through sheer smarts. But she also, Dulcie remembered, got Demetria to reveal herself by pretending to be deceived just a little bit longer than she was.

‘Seven ninety-five.'

Shocked out of her reverie, Dulcie handed over a ten. No wonder this place wasn't a student hang-out. Still, as she took her change and her sandwich, she mused that it would be worth it. If only she could carry out a Hermetria-like deception long enough to learn something useful.

‘So.' She sat down opposite Roland. He looked miserable.

Dulcie took a bite of her sandwich. As a stalling technique, it was delicious.

‘I guess you know,' Roland said finally. ‘About my name.'

Mouth still full, Dulcie nodded.

‘It's really Rodney, but I've always been called Rollie. Really.'

She nodded again to encourage him. Her technique seemed to be working.

‘Rodney Gaithersburg, and I did go to Vanderbilt. Only, I lost my grants and had to start working to pay the rent and, well, with one thing and another  . . .'