The Sixes

8

IT’S THEM, SHE thought, her heart starting to thump. The Sixes. They’ve been here, they left the apples.

She spun around, almost knocking over one of the kitchen chairs.

How had they gotten in? Her eye shot to the kitchen door with the window on the upper half. Each week she left the key for the cleaning lady under a flowerpot on the back stoop. Maybe they’d been watching the house and seen Margaret retrieve it.

Phoebe couldn’t believe they’d had the nerve to sneak into her house.

She flipped on the stoop light, opened the back door, and stepped outside. Peering into the twilight, she wondered if someone might be out there, watching her. She quickly turned over the flowerpot and grabbed the key still beneath it. Phoebe stepped back inside and turned the lock on the door. She also slipped on the chain lock. Next she checked the front door. Still locked. She did a quick circle through the rooms, making sure nothing was disturbed, and then tentatively mounted the stairs. She doubted anyone would still be in the house, and yet her pulse quickened as she opened each of the two bedroom doors and scanned the rooms. Nothing unusual.

Back downstairs she studied the table in her office. There was no indication that anything on her desk had been touched. They’ve been in this room, though, she thought. She could sense it.

Returning to the kitchen, she stood by the table and stared at the apples. I’m being paranoid, she chided herself. She didn’t even know if the Sixes actually existed, and besides, there could be another explanation. Maybe Duncan had left the apples as a thank-you gesture. He might have dropped by and, not finding her home, checked around for a key. But she couldn’t imagine him entering uninvited.

Phoebe dumped the apples in the trash with a thud, picked up her cell phone again, and called Glenda. She was surprised when her friend actually picked up.

“Hey, I was just about to call you with an update,” Glenda said. “Have you recovered from yesterday?”

“Partly. But something weird just happened. I think the Sixes may have paid me a visit at home.”

“What do you mean?” Glenda asked urgently. Phoebe described finding the six apples in her kitchen.

“Damn, I can’t believe this,” Glenda said. “I’m coming over.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m sure you’re swamped.”

“Then why don’t you come by my place for dinner? We’ve scheduled a memorial service for Lily tomorrow night and I need to review the plans, but I’ll be home in two hours. Mark’s at a meeting and Brandon’s going to eat early, which means we can sit and talk.”

Phoebe agreed to the offer. She was eager not only for the company but for the opportunity to hash things out with Glenda. Until it was time to leave, Phoebe tackled her e-mail, but she found it difficult to concentrate. She kept trying to imagine who had come into her house. One person? A group of them? Was it the Sixes? Don’t let them get to you, she told herself. You’re not fifteen years old. But when it was finally time to head to Glenda’s, she left at least one light burning in each of the downstairs rooms.

Glenda swung open the front door of her house only seconds after Phoebe let go of the heavy old-fashioned knocker, and to her surprise, Phoebe found her friend standing in the foyer with a man she vaguely recognized. There was something military-looking about him—the ramrod-straight posture, the cropped hair—and right away Phoebe thought cop. His overly pink skin made his piercing blue eyes nearly pop out of his face.

“Phoebe Hall, this is Detective Michelson,” Glenda said. “He’s leading the investigation into Lily’s death.”

“Nice to meet you,” Phoebe said, reaching out her hand. Michelson gripped it firmly, but his eyes barely took her in, as if he’d instantly assessed her as unimportant to his efforts.

“Thank you for stopping by,” Glenda told him. “It’s very important that the school and community work together on this.”

After Glenda closed the door behind him, she kicked her teal-colored high heels onto the faded Oriental runner. She was wearing a wool dress and jacket—the same color as the shoes—that Phoebe guessed she’d been in for the entire day.

“Follow me,” Glenda said. “A roast chicken awaits.”

Glenda led Phoebe to the back of the house. The kitchen was a cavernous room with miles of countertop geared for entertaining, but there was also a small eating nook with a banquette in a corner. Phoebe shrugged off her coat and slid onto the banquette. The table was already set for two.

“So tell me what happened,” Glenda said, pulling a bottle of white wine from the huge, hulking refrigerator.

“First give me an update on Lily,” Phoebe said. “What did this detective have to say?”

“I don’t have much to report,” Glenda said. She uncorked the bottle, filled two wineglasses halfway to the top, and handed one to Phoebe. “According to Michelson, cause of death was definitely drowning. She had the equivalent of two alcoholic drinks in her system. That could have made her tipsy, but it’s hard to imagine she was so out of it that after getting partly up Bridge Street, she spun around, headed north along the river, and fell in. The only other thing he coughed up was that there was no sign of sexual assault.” She sighed. “Every time I ask him a question, he throws out the phrase ‘confidential police matter.’ ”

“They must have some theory about what happened to her. Could you read between the lines at all?”

“No, but Tom followed up with some of the students the cops talked to, and it looks like the police suspect that a guy might be involved. They kept asking if Lily was seeing someone or if she ever picked up guys in town. It’s possible she met a guy on her way home from Cat Tails or bumped into one she knew on the street. Then the two of them found a spot along the river for a grope session. When Lily decided not to go as far as the guy wanted, he flew into a rage, shoving her into the river. According to her parents, she was a good swimmer. But because it was dark and she’d had a couple of drinks, she may have been disoriented and panicked.”

“If there was no sign of sexual assault, I wonder why they think a guy was involved.”

“Madeline knows someone who knows someone in the coroner’s office, and she heard they found a bruise on Lily’s arm about the size of a thumbprint. As if she may have been forced into the water.”

Phoebe felt her stomach clench at the news.

“Has Stockton had a chance to share his serial killer theory with you?” Phoebe asked.

“Yup,” Glenda said. She set the chicken and salad on the table and slid onto the short end of the banquette. “And can you imagine what that rumor would do to enrollment? Of course, I can’t stick my head in the sand—not with kids’ lives at stake.”

“I know as much about serial killers as I know about the Andromeda strain,” Phoebe said, “but I do know they often move around so they don’t leave a trail. This could be someone who was operating in another area and has moved into this region.”

“Tom’s going to check in with the administration at Parker-Hyde and see what he can find out. But enough about that. Tell me about the damn apples.”

Phoebe relayed what had happened, as well as details of her conversation with Blair’s roommate and Jen Imbibio.

“Of course, we still don’t know for sure that the Sixes exist or if they left the apples,” Phoebe said, “but it seems like a fairly big coincidence that the apples appear at the same time I start asking questions.”

“You’re bringing them out of hiding at least, which is good,” Glenda said. “But I’m furious about what they did. You need to report this to Craig Ball, okay? And you need to get your lock changed.”

“I doubt that whoever snuck in took the trouble to make a copy of my key,” Phoebe said.

“But they might have.”

It could be categorized as overreacting, Phoebe thought, but she realized she would feel more comfortable doing as Glenda suggested.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get the lock changed. Did you tell the detective about the Sixes?”

“No—I didn’t think there was a reason to at this point. Like I said, the cops seem to be looking for a guy right now.”

“Let’s see how my research goes. If the Sixes turn out to be a real group with a vendetta against Lily, you’ll need to let the cops know.”

Glenda set her fork down and looked into Phoebe’s eyes.

“Fee, if for any reason you want to bail on the research, I’d totally understand. When I asked you to help, I never expected that someone would end up sneaking into your house.”

“I won’t lie,” Phoebe said. “Those apples rattled me a little. But they’re just apples. I’d be silly to let them get to me. Next on my list is visiting Alexis Grey to see if she might be willing to talk now. Can you dig up her contact information on file?”

“Of course,” Glenda said. As Phoebe took a sip of wine, she could feel her friend studying her.

“What?” Phoebe asked.

“There’s a question I never knew how to ask you at the time,” she said. “Your experience back in school. How much did it—you know, really affect you? You sounded so strong in your letters, I never knew for sure.”

Phoebe shrugged. She could feel her throat constricting a little.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, setting her wineglass down. “I suppose it’s why I hung back my first years at Wisconsin—because I couldn’t risk getting burned again. And I used to wonder what would have happened if I’d graduated with you and gotten a scholarship to some Ivy League college. How might my life be different? But something good came out of it. You and me. Maybe we wouldn’t have become lifelong friends if I hadn’t had that experience and counted on you for so much support.”

Glenda smiled sadly and raised her glass. “As my mother likes to say, thank God for small favors.”

When they finished eating, Phoebe started to pull on her jacket. In light of what had happened earlier, she was eager to arrive home on the early side.

“I’ve got an idea,” Glenda said. “Stay here tonight. We’ve got this big-ass, fancy guest suite for so-called visiting dignitaries.”

“You’re not serious,” Phoebe said, laughing.

“I’m dead serious. I lured you into this, and I don’t want you staying at your house until you change that lock. The bathroom is stocked with everything you need—even a toothbrush.”

Phoebe started to argue, but she could see Glenda wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

After Glenda showed her to the ground-floor guest room, decorated in yellow chintz, and said goodnight, Phoebe realized she’d never mentioned her dinner with Duncan. Tonight hadn’t been the right time anyway. She washed up in the adjoining bathroom and left the light on and the door just an inch ajar. As she tugged off her jeans a minute later, she heard a car pull into the driveway along the side of the house. Mark, she realized. Wearing just her T-shirt and panties, Phoebe climbed into the high antique bed.

She had just begun to drift off to sleep when she heard a man’s muffled shout from the floor above her. Her eyes shot open, and her muscles tensed. It was over so quickly she wondered for a second if she’d imagined it. But she knew she hadn’t. She waited, holding her breath, but nothing else came. For the second time in a week, she wondered if there was trouble in Glenda’s marriage.

The next morning, on her way to Ball’s office to report about the apples, she dropped by the café in the student union for coffee.

“We have to stop meeting at local eateries like this,” a male voice said behind her.

She spun around to find Duncan standing in line. She was surprised by the small rush of pleasure she felt at seeing him.

“Oh, hi,” she said, realizing that she must look grungy from not having showered. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

She waited while he ordered a coffee himself and walked out with him onto the quad. It was much cooler today than yesterday, and the wind was driving crinkly maple and oak leaves across the grass. Students were bundled up.

“I take it you didn’t check the weather forecast last night,” he said with a smile, nodding toward her lightweight coat. Duncan himself was wearing a suede jacket.

“Um, actually I bunked down at Glenda’s last night.” She relayed the story about the apples.

“That’s pretty damn nervy,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Shouldn’t you turn this investigation back over to the administration?”

“I think I’m okay for now.” His concern was making her feel anxious. “So the memorial’s tonight. Do you think there’ll be a big turnout?”

“I would guess so. Are you going?” He seemed to study her closely. Her hair was whipping around her face, and she could feel that the tip of her nose was reddening from the cold.

“Yes. Definitely.”

“By the way, thanks again for dinner Sunday night,” he said. He held her eyes, as if he was about to say something else, and she thought, Okay, here it comes—a request to get together again—but suddenly he broke his gaze and glanced at a group of students rushing by. “Oops, I’ve got a student meeting now. Take care—and please be careful, okay?”

She watched as he dashed across campus, his strides long and easy. She felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d wanted that invitation, she realized.

Taking sips of her coffee as she walked, she made her way to the small building on the eastern edge of campus that housed security. Since a student had just died, she expected to step into a scene of jangling phones and tense activity, but the room was quiet and there were only two people there—a pretty young woman manning the front desk and an older man, probably early seventies, on the other side of it. He was wearing a parka plastered with strands of yellow dog fur. It was clear Phoebe had interrupted a conversation between the two, but the man stepped off to the side to let Phoebe speak, as if he had the time to wait. He was tall, with a large frame, but there was something hat-in-hand about his stance.

“Is Officer Ball available?” Phoebe asked the girl at the desk.

“I’m sorry, he’s not,” she said with a light southern accent. “But if you leave a message, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Phoebe offered her name and number, which the girl typed into the desktop computer, her nails clacking against the keys. Phoebe started to leave but then turned back. “Oh, just one more thing,” she said. “I need a locksmith. Can you make a recommendation?”

“Mmmm, lemme see,” the girl said, sliding open the top drawer of her desk. “I’ve got some cards in here.”

“You lock yourself out?” the old guy said. Gruff voice, but his nearly translucent blue eyes were kind.

“No, just want to change one of my locks,” Phoebe said.

“There’s a place called Reliable Locks over on Broad. Tell them Hutch sent you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Phoebe said. She realized that this must be Hutch Hutchinson, the security head that Ball had nudged out of his job.

As Phoebe pushed the door open to leave, she could sense the old guy sidling back up to the desk.

“Well, tell Craig I stopped by again,” she heard him say. His comment was followed by the sound of his parka being zipped.

“I will, Hutch,” the girl said almost tenderly. “I’m so sorry he hasn’t had a chance to call you back. It’s been just crazy around here, you know.”

Outside on the path, Phoebe called directory assistance on her phone and learned the exact address of the locksmith. She could swing by there right now, she thought. She was putting her phone back into her purse when she nearly collided with Hutchinson. In the bright light of day she saw that his face was leathered with age, but thanks to his striking blue eyes and thick head of gray hair, he was still a handsome man.

“You’re the former head of campus security, right?” Phoebe said. “I’m Phoebe Hall, an old friend of Glenda’s. I’m teaching a couple of classes here this term.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hutch said and pumped her hand with a firm grip.

“Glenda tells me you did a great job here.”

“Well, I sure enjoyed working with Dr. Johns,” Hutch said. “She’s one of the best things that ever happened to this college.”

“Do you still keep in touch with many people on campus?” Phoebe said, thinking of the comment he’d made inside about stopping by again.

“Not so much. But with this girl drowning, I thought they could use an extra pair of hands in the investigation.” He didn’t add that Craig was obviously not responding to his overtures. She bet Craig would rather be caught drinking a cocktail with a pink umbrella in it than encourage any help from his former boss.

“What’s your take on the situation?” Phoebe asked.

Hutchinson puffed up his chest, clearly pleased to be asked. “Hard to say when I don’t know any details. Could be suicide, but when a young lady ends up dead, there’s often a guy in play. Could be a bad catch she picked up in a bar—or a boyfriend she dumped. One of the most dangerous things for a girl this age is breaking up with a guy who doesn’t want to be broken up with.”

Interesting, Phoebe thought. “Someone in the administration has a theory there’s a serial killer on the loose,” she said, deciding it was okay to mention it to him.

Hutchinson harrumphed. “By definition, then, I’d say there’d have to be more than one dead body.”

“There was another drowning, though, right? The spring before last?”

Hutchinson looked off and didn’t say anything

“Scott Macus,” he said after a few seconds. “A crying shame about that. But the cops ruled that an accident. Besides, there’s a year and a half between the two deaths. Serial killers like a cooling-off period, but it’s rarely that long.”

He tilted his head and scratched his neck with a knotted finger.

“Unless,” he added, “you count the kid who ended up in the river but survived.”

Phoebe felt cold in her thin jacket. “When was that?” she asked.

“Last November, just before I retired. A kid came into the security office one night, sopping wet and shivering his butt off. A senior, I recall. Said he’d come to in the river and didn’t know how he’d gotten there. Last thing he remembered was being at that damn bar, Cat Tails. He managed to kick off his shoes and swim to shore. I wasn’t on duty that night, but I followed up with him the next day. He didn’t have a scratch on him, so there was no indication of foul play. My determination was that he’d been inebriated and had fallen in accidentally.”

My God, Phoebe thought. Cat Tails was the bar that both Lily and Scott Macus had last been seen in. Could there be a serial killer?

“Does Craig know about this?”

“It’s in the database, but since he didn’t handle the call, he might not know to look there.”

“Should you tell him?”

He smiled. “Craig doesn’t seem to care about what I have to say. Besides, in my opinion, if you put a college next to a river, kids are always gonna fall in. This serial killer angle seems pretty out of the box to me.”

“I have another question for you,” Phoebe said, knowing he wouldn’t mind. “Glenda asked me to look into whether there may be a secret society of girls on campus, called the Sixes. Ever hear anything like that?”

Hutch cocked his head, clearly surprised.

She continued. “They apparently sometimes leave their mark—for instance, the number six painted on a wall, or six objects clustered together.”

Hutch shook his head. “Nope, never got wind of anything like that. But I’ll keep my ears open.”

Phoebe dug out a business card from her purse and offered it to Hutch.

Hutch smiled as he accepted it and gave her a small salute with his large hand. Phoebe sensed he’d enjoyed the exchange.

As she watched him walk off, she heard someone approach her too closely from behind. She spun around. Standing smack in front of her was the man she considered the incarnation of the devil on earth.