The Sixes

9

“WELL, HELLO, PHOEBE,” Pete Tobias said smarmily. She half expected him to drop to the ground and begin to slither around her ankles on his belly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The last line was a total lie. It was suddenly clear to Phoebe that he’d been the guy who had asked Craig Ball about her. Tobias worked for the New York Post and was one of the reporters who’d treated her most viciously in print following the plagiarism charges. His distaste for her had seeped through every word, and she’d wondered if she’d once done something indirectly to enrage him, leading to a grudge against her. He’d obviously figured out where she’d fled in exile and driven out here so he could file an update for readers who craved the rush of schadenfreude her saga could provide.

“Oh, really?” Phoebe said, trying not to reveal how much his sudden presence disturbed her. “That’s funny, because weren’t you asking for me on campus yesterday?”

Though there was still a smug tug to his mouth, his too-small eyes flickered. She’d caught him in a lie, and it had thrown him off his game a little. “What I meant was that I’m surprised to see you in front of campus security,” he said. “Everything okay, I hope?”

“What exactly do you want from me?” she asked. She could hear an edge in her voice and she warned herself to take it down a notch.

Tobias’s lips curled into a full smile. With a start she wondered if there was a dreadful new development in her situation—someone else claiming she’d stolen his words and threatening to sue her ass off.

“I hate to disappoint you, Phoebe, but I’m actually here covering the death of Lily Mack.”

“Why would a death in Pennsylvania interest the New York Post?”

“There’s a very good reason. Lily’s a New York City girl—from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. Then someone told me that you were working here. What a coincidence! I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee and hear what you’ve been up to.”

Sure, Phoebe thought, but you’ll have to drag me back to hell with you to do it. “I’m sorry, but this is a very busy time for me,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She strode briskly away, headed to Glenda’s house to pick up her car. Because she knew Tobias was probably following her with his eyes, or might even be tailing her from a distance, she kept her posture confident. But once she was in the car, she let her shoulders sag in dismay. She couldn’t believe that prick had surfaced in her life again.

Phoebe drove directly home without bothering to stop by the locksmith’s. She felt discombobulated by her encounter with Tobias, and right now she craved the sanctuary of her house. As soon as she entered, she made a sweep through the rooms, checking for any sign of disturbance. But everything appeared to be fine.

She was desperate for a shower, but that was trumped by her need to know what Tobias was really up to. She clicked on the New York Post Web site and searched under his name. Bless his evil heart, Phoebe thought. He’d been telling the truth. There were several reports with his byline on the disappearance of Lily and the discovery of her body, including a few details from anonymous sources about the drowning and some breathless quotes from kids on campus.

And then, to her chagrin, she discovered a reference to herself at the end of Tobias’s most recent story. “Lyle happens to be the college where disgraced celebrity biographer Phoebe Hall now teaches,” he’d written. Next, she thought, the jerk would be insinuating that she was linked to Lily’s death somehow. She imagined the headline: “Plagiarist Eyed in Death of Pretty Coed.”

Enough about him, Phoebe told herself. She needed a game plan for tackling the Sixes. If only I knew more about them, she thought. Was membership simply about feeling important and superior—and the thrill that came from excluding other girls? Or was there something far more sinister at work?

Somehow she had to find a way to make direct contact with Blair Usher. The girl wasn’t returning her calls, and it was pointless to keep trudging over to the house on Ash Street, where Gwen and Blair could just ignore her knocks on the door. She decided to ask Glenda for both a photo of Blair and the girl’s class schedule. Then Phoebe would basically stalk the girl until she caught up with her.

Also, as she’d told Glenda, she needed to talk to Alexis Grey. Phoebe had no classes on Thursday and she decided to drive to the Baltimore area then.

Only in learning more about the Sixes would she have a chance of understanding what Lily had been referring to. Was there something awful she’d discovered about the group only after she’d joined?

Of course, Phoebe realized, Lily’s need for a fresh start might have nothing to do with the Sixes. Maybe the mess was a romantic one—she’d hooked up with the wrong guy, for instance, after her boyfriend Trevor disappeared. It might be the guy she’d hinted to her roommate Amanda about. And her death might be linked to the romance.

She felt unsettled suddenly, almost claustrophobic. I’m letting those stupid apples still get to me, she thought. She headed upstairs, hoping a shower would relax her.

Later Phoebe returned to her study and gladly diverted her attention to grading the last few reports for class the next day. At one point her eyes drifted over to the folder at the back of the table, the one stuffed with clippings that were supposed to inspire her next book idea. The sight of it triggered a brief wave of anxiety. I’ve got to come up with something, she told herself. But not today. There was just too much going on.

As the day continued, Phoebe still couldn’t shake her unease. She decided she would go back to Berta’s before the seven o’clock memorial service and treat herself to a light dinner there. Before leaving the house, she remembered to call the locksmith Hutch had recommended and arranged for her lock to be changed after her second class tomorrow.

She cut through campus on her way to Berta’s. The sun was already low in the sky, mostly hidden by swaths of sooty gray clouds. Students hurried down pathways and across the grass, shouting to each other in order to be heard over the wind. Halfway across the quad, Phoebe decided on a detour. She headed over toward the plaza in front of the student union, where the memorial would be held. She was curious to see what the setup was.

When she arrived, she saw that a platform and podium were already in place, as well as a hundred or so folding chairs. Nearby, a few boys tossed a small football back and forth, though the wind played havoc with their fun. A huge gust suddenly tore through campus, making the podium rock back and forth. Phoebe caught sight of the pathway that ran from the plaza toward Arthur Hall, the one whose puddles she had leaped over with Lily that day.

“Professor Hall?”

Phoebe didn’t use “Professor” as a title because she wasn’t one, but occasionally students made the mistake. She turned around.

She’d never met the girl who was standing before her. Phoebe would have remembered. She had long brown hair, which was glossy and smooth, even in the wind. Her eyes were a striking khaki color, set slightly far apart, and they glistened now, as if she had just blinked back tears. There was a pretty flush to her cheeks, and her full lips were naturally outlined in a rosy shade just a bit darker than the rest. Not a classic beauty in any way, Phoebe thought, but the kind of face you couldn’t take your eyes off.

“Yes?” Phoebe said.

“I’m Blair Usher,” the girl replied.

Phoebe had to fight to hide her surprise. So no need to stalk her after all, she thought.

“Ah,” Phoebe said. “Nice to meet you.” She wondered if she was standing face to face with someone who’d snuck into her home.

“You keep leaving me messages,” the girl said, almost petulantly. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, you can,” Phoebe said. “I’m part of a team doing an internal investigation into Lily Mack’s death, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Actually, I was going to grab a bite before the memorial. Can I treat you to a burger or a salad?”

“I have plans right now,” Blair said. “Sorry.” She didn’t sound very sorry.

“Which way are you headed?” Phoebe asked.

“Why?” Blair demanded. She seemed wary but at the same time utterly confident. Certain animals in the wild are like that, Phoebe thought. Big cats, for instance.

“Just wondering,” Phoebe said.

“That way,” Blair said, pointing east with her chin. “Off campus.”

“Me too,” Phoebe said. “I’ll walk with you for a bit, then.”

Blair hesitated for a moment, and Phoebe was sure the girl was about to say she’d misspoken, that she was really headed north or west or anyplace other than where Phoebe was going. But Blair finally shrugged a shoulder. “Whatever,” she said.

As they started to walk, Phoebe studied Blair from the side. She had to be one of the most attractive girls on campus, and she dressed as if she knew it. She was wearing skintight jeans, knee-high black suede boots, and a black coat nipped in at the waist with a flared skirt. Wrapped twice around her neck was a pink cashmere scarf. An It girl, just as Stockton had said. To her right Phoebe saw some of the touch football players pause and look, staring right through Phoebe at Blair.

“I’m sure the police have already asked you,” Phoebe said. “But do you have any thoughts on what might have happened to Lily?”

“None whatsoever,” Blair said. “I hadn’t spent any time with her lately.”

“But there was a chance you were going to see her that night, right? Her roommate said Lily had told her she might stay at your place.”

“No,” Blair said firmly, “Lily was never going to stay at my place that night. At the very beginning of the term she used to stay over sometimes. She’d gotten totally screwed in her living situation when her boyfriend took off, so we’d let her crash on our couch. But that was weeks ago.”

So either Lily had lied to her roommate or Blair was lying now, Phoebe thought.

“Why do you think she told her roommate that, then?” Phoebe asked.

Blair paused on the cement path and turned to face Phoebe. “Maybe,” she said softly, in a fake conspiratorial tone, “she didn’t want her roommate to know what she was really planning to do that night.”

“When you were seeing more of Lily, was she ever blue or depressed?”

“If she was, she never let on to me. Of course, I’m sure she wasn’t pleased when her boyfriend bolted. He left without even saying good-bye.” There was a hint of glee in the last statement, as if she thought Lily had gotten what she deserved. Phoebe told herself not to react.

“Had you heard whether she was dating someone new lately?”

“Dating someone?”

Oh, that’s right, Phoebe thought. No one in college dated anymore.

“I mean seeing someone. Or hooking up. Her roommate mentioned that she thought Lily had started to see a new guy. Any ideas who that could be?”

A look crossed Blair’s face, and then it was gone almost instantly, like the ripple made by a breeze across a puddle of water. But Phoebe had caught it: a micro expression of disapproval, perhaps even anger. Have I pricked a nerve? Phoebe wondered.

“Nope,” Blair said. “No clue.”

They were getting close to the eastern gate, and Phoebe guessed she only had a minute or two more.

“So you and Lily had drifted apart,” Phoebe said. “Did you two have some kind of falling out?”

“Why would you think that?” Blair asked.

“Because that’s often the case when people stop being friends.”

Blair stopped and turned to Phoebe, holding her eyes. “I guess as a famous biographer, you know all about what makes people tick,” she said smugly.

Phoebe smiled at her. “Sometimes it’s just common sense,” she said.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, Lily turned out to be someone who wasn’t trustworthy. I decided it was better to keep my distance.”

“What did she do that upset you?”

“I probably shouldn’t say. It wouldn’t be nice—with her being dead and everything.”

They had just passed through the east gate, and Blair stopped on the sidewalk. She would make certain, of course, that she went the opposite way that Phoebe did.

Phoebe decided to go for broke. “Lily didn’t join the Sixes, did she?” she asked. “Is that what upset you?”

The girl clearly hadn’t expected Phoebe to go there, and, caught off guard, she looked briefly away. Phoebe could tell Blair’s mind was racing, trying to figure out how to play it. The girl looked back at Phoebe.

“The Sixes?” she asked slyly. “I’m not following.” Her tone suggested she was up for a little game.

“It’s a secret society of girls here,” Phoebe said. “Though it’s hardly much of a secret anymore. I would have thought you’d heard of them.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Blair said, and briefly touched the tip of her tongue to her pillowy upper lip. “There have been a few rumors about them.”

“And what exactly have you heard?” Phoebe asked.

“Nothing really very specific,” Blair said, staring straight at Phoebe. “Just that they’re very, very powerful.”

Phoebe’s heart skipped. The last comment hadn’t just been part of the game. It had been a threat, of course. I’m being warned off, Phoebe thought anxiously, just like I was years ago.

“Is there anything else?” Blair asked. “I really have to go.”

“No,” Phoebe said. “Thank you for your time.”

Phoebe turned toward Bridge Street, and behind her, she heard Blair walk briskly off in the opposite direction, her boots tapping hard against the sidewalk.

As soon as she was at Berta’s, Phoebe ordered a glass of wine. She had envisioned a quiet hour by herself, a chance to unwind, but she felt totally on edge. Phoebe had no doubt now that the Sixes existed, and that Blair was in the thick of it. There was something truly unsettling about the girl.

By the time Phoebe finally headed back to campus, it was dark and she was later than she’d planned to be. Reaching the plaza, she saw that a huge crowd of students and faculty was already milling around. Many of the students held candles, cupping the wildly flickering flames with their hands. Phoebe’s eyes scanned the crowd. Far off to the left, she spotted Pete Tobias talking to a bunch of students, obviously coaxing information from them like a con artist. She headed to the opposite side of the plaza, aiming to steer as clear of him as possible.

Toward the edge of the crowd, a long rectangular table had been set up to sell coffee, and Phoebe bought a cup. Just ahead of her she spotted Craig Ball weaving through the crowd. She realized he had never gotten back to her.

A few minutes later, Tom Stockton opened the service and introduced Glenda. Her remarks weren’t long, but they were sincere and moving. “The way we can remember Lily,” she told the crowd, “is to take pieces of her spirit into our own lives.”

Phoebe noticed that Mark, Glenda’s husband, was standing near the front of the crowd. But rather than listening intently, he was glancing down into something in his hand. Probably his BlackBerry, Phoebe realized. She felt that nervous twinge again, like she’d experienced when she heard the shout last night. She was going to have to talk to Glenda about what was going on with her friend’s marriage.

Two students spoke next, girls who choked back tears as they described Lily and paid tribute to her. It seemed that each knew her not so much as a good friend, but as someone they had interacted with in the course of a school activity—one had been on the volleyball team with Lily, another was a coeditor of the school magazine. Did that mean Lily didn’t have many close friends? Phoebe wondered. Because she’d joined the Sixes? Because there was a new guy in her life? Phoebe glanced around at the faces of kids in the crowd. The students seemed somber, definitely upset, and some of the girls had tears streaming down their faces. There was no sign, interestingly, of Blair or Gwen.

The ceremony closed with a blessing from the school chaplain and a haunting song from the choral society. The crowd began to disperse into the darkness, though some students hung back, hugging or talking listlessly to each other. Phoebe thought of making her way up to Glenda, but she saw that her friend was surrounded by members of the administration. Time to head home, then, Phoebe thought, and the idea made her slightly uneasy.

“Excuse me, Phoebe?” Phoebe turned to see that it was Jan Wait from the English department, the lenses of her big red glasses fogged from the cold. “Miles and I are having people over for a glass of wine—we’re just parallel to Bridge Street on Morton. Twenty-six. Would you like to join us?”

Phoebe almost said no, and then caught herself. Jan had always been pleasant to her, and Phoebe appreciated the invitation. It would be a relief to have company tonight.

“That sounds lovely,” Phoebe said.

Before leaving the plaza, Phoebe spent a few minutes studying the thinning crowd. Still no sign of Blair. Or Duncan either. But maybe he’ll be at the Waits’s, Phoebe thought. Miles Wait was in the psych department, too.

Their place turned out to be one of the restored wooden houses from the 1700s that dotted the town, especially closer to the river. As Phoebe shrugged off her coat in the small entranceway, she peered through the door into the living room, checking out the scene. There were already about a dozen people inside, sipping wine and chattering. And Duncan was there, at the far end of the room. He stood by the bookcase with a white bust of Freud on the top shelf, talking to a woman. Phoebe could only see the edge of her through the crowd.

She stepped into the living room, welcomed warmly by the tall, affable Miles. She glanced back toward Duncan and decided to approach. Suddenly the crowd around him shifted slightly, and she saw that it was Val Porter who was standing next to him, talking animatedly. And then, to her surprise, Val reached up and ran her hand down Duncan’s back.

It was the kind of possessive gesture that only a lover would make.