Grey Expectations by Clea Simon Page A

usually gruff manners and refusal to explain anything that was going on. But even Suze had thought that Trista had blown it out of proportion. And even if she was still nervous – or suffering from exhaustion or whatever – Trista would be more approachable this morning, after a night’s sleep, and especially after a departmental meeting. In keeping with her hip look, Trista liked to present a cool facade. No matter what it cost her, she’d be rational in front of the rest of the department – and Dulcie might be able to get a little more sense out of her, starting with why she’d decided that their imported colleague had been killed.
    She looked at her watch. Ten twenty, she just might make it. And if all went according to plan, she would put this curious incident behind her. She might even be able to duck Thorpe after. If she could get into the library by noon, Dulcie thought, turning off Mass Ave, this would be a most beautiful day.
    An hour later, it registered with Dulcie that she had not even gotten coffee. It wasn’t that Nancy hadn’t made it. As soon as she’d skipped up the steps to the old clapboard house that served as the departmental headquarters, she’d smelled that marvelous, ever so slightly burned aroma, the result of too many drips left on the institutional coffee-maker.
    But before she could even step from the front hall into the former sitting room that now served as an all-purpose office-cum-gathering space, Dulcie was grabbed and hustled into the conference room opposite.
    â€˜Dulcie, thank God.’ It was Trista, looking a little frantic. ‘Do you have a minute?’
    â€˜Hey, Trista. Yeah, I talked to Suze—’ Dulcie tried to respond, but her friend cut her off.
    â€˜There’s something going on – something I hadn’t thought of. It might  . . . well, we should talk.’
    â€˜Miss Schwartz, there you are.’ Martin Thorpe had walked in. ‘I was wondering when you’d get here.’
    â€˜The meeting’s not till—’ She checked her watch. Ten thirty-five. ‘I’m only five minutes late.’
    â€˜These are not ordinary times.’ Thorpe looked at her over his glasses. ‘Your presence is requested immediately.’ He looked up, as if seeing Trista for the first time. ‘Yours, too, Miss Dunlop.’
    â€˜What?’ Dulce mouthed the question silently to Trista as they trekked up the stairs behind their leader.
    Trista shook her head. ‘Not here,’ she whispered, looking down behind them.
    There wasn’t time for anything more. Dulcie ducked instinctively as she watched Thorpe stoop under the lintel that led into the upstairs conference room. The building dated to the Revolutionary War, and as far as its current inhabitants could tell, it had barely been renovated, except for the addition of electricity and a flush toilet that could be temperamental. That made it almost contemporaneous with the author of The Ravages , a fact that usually pleased Dulcie, who liked to imagine the scenes the old wood must have witnessed. Only, today, Dulcie didn’t have time for such fantasies. She made it up to the doorway and stopped short, until Trista, behind her, gave her a small shove.
    â€˜Ladies, please.’ Thorpe motioned to two chairs in the far corner. He himself had not taken his usual seat. That was occupied by a man they all knew well, the man whose unexpected appearance had caused Dulcie to stop so suddenly. Even as she scurried over to one of the empty chairs, his image stayed with her and set her mind racing.
    He was big, for starters. Big enough to make the little room seem claustrophobic, and his grey hair – thick and swept to the side – and substantial salt-and-pepper moustache did nothing to soften features that could have been carved out of granite. Like a nightmare version of Theodore Roosevelt or some dyspeptic walrus, he looked as