The Sixes

19

DUNCAN WAS POLITE as they left the inn, helping her on with her jacket, opening the door for her. Maybe, Phoebe thought, I simply misinterpreted the hold-you-captive comment he made last night—he might have been playful and hadn’t intended the remark to be taken literally. And he had extended their original date by almost an entire day.

But during their drive back to Lyle, he seemed distracted, even slightly aloof, and her gut told her something was definitely up. She realized he might be annoyed that she’d promised to go see Hutch after assuring Duncan she’d cease playing private eye. And yet she remembered she’d actually noticed a slight change in him when she’d first returned from the ladies’ room. He’d seemed more pensive.

Perhaps what she’d witnessed had just been a gradual mood swing—intensified by the wine at lunch and spending hours in the company of the same person. She remembered how right from the start she had wondered if Duncan was prone to moodiness and retreating into himself.

As they drove, Phoebe watched the landscape roll by and commented from time to time on how lovely it was. Duncan acknowledged her comments pleasantly but added nothing more.

“Is everything okay?” Phoebe asked finally. Men hated that line, she knew, and it rarely produced an honest answer, but she felt she had to give it a shot. “You seem kind of quiet all of a sudden.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I got a call when you were in the ladies’ room about a few things I need to take care of today. I apologize for seeming distracted.”

“Not a problem,” she said. “Just wondering.”

Once they reached the outskirts of Lyle, Duncan seemed to relax more into his seat, and she sensed his remoteness dissipating. As he pulled up to her house, he glanced over and smiled.

“This isn’t going to cause your neighbors’ tongues to start wagging, is it? It’s not quite the walk of shame at this hour, but if any of your neighbors have hawk eyes, they’ll realize you’re basically wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday.”

“Well, they didn’t notice anyone climbing in my window or hauling rats through the back door, so apparently their observation skills aren’t all that good,” Phoebe said.

He put the car in park. “Why don’t I come in for a minute and make sure everything’s okay.”

Part of her was tempted to say yes, but she shook her head instead. She didn’t want to prolong the awkward vibe that had taken hold since lunch.

“Thanks, but I should be fine now,” she said. “The locksmith declared the house tight as a drum.”

A large vehicle came rumbling down the street at that moment, and they both looked up in unison. It turned out to be from a Philadelphia television station, and it was obviously headed toward campus.

“I wonder if there’s some new development,” Duncan said, narrowing his eyes.

“Or they’ve just come back from a late lunch at Taco Bell,” Phoebe said. “Speaking of lunch, thanks for a lovely day.”

He reached his hand behind her neck, pulled her close, and kissed her on the mouth.

“I had a great time this weekend,” he said. “Call me if there’s any problem—no matter what time it is, all right? I’ll just be grading papers tonight,” he said. It was as if his detachment during the drive home had been a figment of her imagination.

As she unlocked the front door of the house, she could hear the motor of the car humming behind her, and she realized Duncan was waiting until she checked inside. She scanned the living room and then turned and waved out the doorway. Duncan waved back and drove off down the street.

Once inside, she went window by window, checking that the locks were all on. It was clear nothing had been tampered with. But as she walked through the kitchen to check the back door, the thought of the bloody pool at the bottom of the dishwasher made her gag. Craig had promised to talk to the police about the incident on Thursday night, and she thought someone from the precinct would have been in touch with her by now.

As soon as she finished her inspection, Phoebe called Hutch. She wanted to arrange to stop by his cabin and find out what lightbulb had gone off for him. But he didn’t pick up.

“Hey, Hutch, it’s Phoebe,” she said to his answering machine. “I’m home now and I can stop by any time.” She imagined him out in the truck with his dogs, maybe picking up firewood or some grub for dinner tonight, probably listening to someone like Patsy Cline.

Next she phoned Glenda. She’d been surprised not to hear from her either. Just when she thought the call would go to voice mail, Glenda picked up.

“Sorry to be out of touch,” Glenda said. “I barely had time to shower today with everything that’s going on.”

“What’s the latest?”

“The campus is like a zoo. The kids are freaked, and so are their parents and the board of trustees. And we’re not just a regional story anymore—apparently a crew from Dateline is barreling in our direction as we speak. The fact that Halloween’s on Sunday isn’t helping. There’s a rumor running rampant that the next victim will be found this weekend.”

“Do you think Tom is fueling any of this?”

“To some degree, yes. I keep reiterating to him how crucial it is not to fan the flames, and he gives me that haughty look as if he’s shocked I’d suggest he would. But more than once I’ve spotted him huddled with someone on campus, and I don’t like it. Plus, he sent an e-mail update to parents that he didn’t clear with me first, and I thought the tone was all wrong. Yes, you’ve got to shoot straight, but you shouldn’t create mass hysteria.”

“How about you? How are you coping?”

“I’ve never felt so agitated in my career. I don’t think I’m giving that away in public, but inside I’m like that expression the kids here use—‘a hot mess.’ And poor Brandon. I haven’t been able to give him an ounce of time lately.”

“What about Mark? How is this affecting things?”

“I once thought I had a good marriage, but instead of having my back, Mark seems even more distant these days. I’ve asked him to help with Brandon, to spend more time with him, and all he says is that he’s too busy with work. But enough about me. How are you?”

From the casual tone of the question, Phoebe realized that her friend wasn’t in the loop about the latest incident.

“Well, there’s been a little development on my end, which Ball was supposed to tell you about.” She relayed the dishwasher story to Glenda.

“Oh, my God,” Glenda said. “Why the hell didn’t he inform me? And you had to stay there alone last night?”

“It’s not a problem,” Phoebe answered vaguely. “I’ve beefed up my locks.” As she spoke, she felt the guilt surge back. She still hadn’t told Glenda about Duncan, and the longer she waited, the more awkward it would be. She started to say something, but Glenda cut in.

“Fee, look, I appreciate all you’ve done,” Glenda said. “But this is now totally out of hand. I want you to stop your investigation. I can’t put you in danger.”

“Oh, come on,” Phoebe said. “They’ve played a few dreadful pranks, but there’s no sign I’m in any real danger.”

“But you said yourself that we don’t really know what these girls might be capable of.”

“Are you thinking that as part of the fifth or sixth circle of membership, the Sixes will now demand the head of a tarnished celebrity biographer?” Phoebe tried to joke.

“I’m not kidding. I want you to stop. Why don’t you stay here tonight, and we’ll talk about it.”

“I’ll be okay, really.”

“At least come over for lunch tomorrow. I need to discuss this with you in person.”

Though Phoebe had no intention of letting Glenda force her off the hunt, she knew it would be good to hash out everything that had transpired in person. And she could finally tell her about Duncan. She agreed to stop by just after noon.

As the day quickly turned to twilight, she could feel dread begin to nudge her again. All of the ease and contentment she’d felt at Duncan’s last night was gone. Her perturbed mood, she realized, stemmed not only from having to face a night alone in her house, but also from the abrupt end to her afternoon with Duncan. Now that she had a few hours’ distance on the experience, she was sure that the shape-shifting his mood had undergone was due to something other than a phone call about work.

Keeping her gaze off the dishwasher, Phoebe made a cup of tea. She’d just sat down when her cell phone rang. Hutch, she thought. But she didn’t recognize the number on the screen.

“Professor Hall?” the voice asked. It sounded like a student. Don’t tell me someone’s pleading for a grade change during the weekend, she thought.

“Yes?”

“It’s Wesley Hines. You gave me your number, and said I could call you.”

“Oh, of course,” she said. Something was up. “How can I help?”

Wesley blew a gust of breath loudly into the receiver. “Wow, it’s been a weird two days since I saw you last,” he confessed.

“How so?” she asked. He’d been to the police, she suspected.

“Well, I did what you told me to do. I went to see the cops and told them my story.”

“That’s good. How did they react when you told them?”

“They took it seriously, real seriously. Let me tell you, it’s been a relief to have people finally pay attention—and you were the first one, so I appreciate that.”

“I’m sure it was frustrating when you talked to the campus cops last year, but I hope you can see it from their perspective. They had no reason to suspect it was anything more than an accident.”

“Yeah, well, I take it you heard about the drowned guy they found?”

“Yes, Trevor Harris. Did you know him?”

“Nope—though I knew the name. I guess Lily Mack must have mentioned him at some point, and then people were buzzing about him last spring, when they thought he just took off.”

“Are you thinking that the same thing happened to him that happened to you—but he didn’t make it out alive?”

“I’m no expert, but hey, I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that you’re supposed to put two and two together, and this sure looks like two and two together. It gives me the creeps when I think how close I came to dying myself.”

“Well, I’m just so happy you’re okay. And I appreciate your calling me to let me know you saw the cops.”

“Actually, that’s not the only reason I’m calling. You told me to get in touch if I thought of anything else—and I did. It may not mean much, but I don’t know, I guess I thought I should share it.”

Instinctively Phoebe sat up straighter, her curiosity fully engaged. She was sure the police wouldn’t want her getting involved in the investigation, but she wasn’t about to let that discourage her.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’m anxious to hear.”

“Oh shoot, two people just walked into the store. Is there a chance we could meet after we close today? Then there won’t be any interruptions.”

“Today’s complicated, unfortunately,” Phoebe said. She was eager to hear what he had to say, but she needed to leave the evening open for Hutch. “How about tomorrow morning—at around ten?”

“Yeah, we’re closed on Sundays, so that should be fine. There’s a diner on Route 412 called Sammy’s. Ever hear of it?”

“No, but I’ll look it up. I’ll see you there at ten then.”

As soon as she hung up, Phoebe began to pace the living room. Hutch had something interesting to share, and now so did Wesley. Maybe, just maybe, the truth would begin to emerge this weekend.

She stopped pacing and massaged her temples. She could feel a headache coming on, partly from hunger, but there was no way she was going to cook anything in her kitchen. It had been a week since she’d been to Tony’s, and she realized that the quiet back room and a glass of Montepulciano might help her take the edge off. Before she locked up, leaving several lights on, she tried Hutch again. No answer. She left another message saying that she was anxious to talk to him.

She drove to Tony’s this time, and parked the car along Bridge Street. Stepping inside the restaurant, she wondered if she might see Duncan there, lingering again over a bowl of pasta. But the only people at the bar were two middle-aged guys watching a hockey game with the sound barely audible. Tony wasn’t even there tonight. The hostess led her to a table in the back room, past about a dozen diners. Phoebe started to order her usual chicken with rosemary, but then realized that she suddenly had little appetite. She asked instead for a Caprese salad and a glass of wine.

She could feel a funk begin to descend, blending weirdly with her anxiety, as if she’d taken two medications that shouldn’t be mixed. She closed her eyes and thought of Lily once again. She pictured the pretty girl she’d met that day, her blond hair wet with rain. You wanted out of the Sixes, didn’t you? she thought. So what did Blair do to you when she found out?

Later, when the waitress cleared away her unfinished salad, Phoebe started to order an espresso and then changed her mind. She suddenly felt as eager to hightail it out of Tony’s as she’d been to get down here. She paid the bill and stepped outside the restaurant. The air was crisp and clear, and Phoebe could hear the thump of rock music farther down Bridge Street. Cat Tails, she realized. And then an idea grabbed her. It’s time I finally check out this place, she thought.

She left her car where she’d parked it and descended the hill, forced to bend her knees because of the steep incline. The music grew louder with each step she took, and was soon mixed with shouts and laughter. She’d planned to slip into the side entrance of Cat Tails, but there was a snarl of obnoxious-looking guys by the door there, so she continued down the street, turned right, and used the main door of the building. I’m going to feel like a fool in here, she thought as she entered, especially if I run into any students I know. But her curiosity was on fire now, and there was no turning back.

Surprisingly, the place was only half full. She surveyed the crowd. It was a mix of townies, a pack of older women flashing their cleavage, and kids who were clearly Lyle College students. One, whose sex was unclear, was wearing a rubber werewolf mask. Another, a girl, had on an absurdly tall witch’s cap. Phoebe remembered it was Halloween weekend.

The place itself was an utter dive. The only decor to speak of were lights boasting different beer brands and a huge, weathered print of a catfish over the jukebox—the one where Wesley had played the Stones songs. Phoebe crossed the sticky floor and ordered a glass of red wine at the bar, suffering a smirk from the bartender. Then she turned and almost gasped. Tom Stockton was standing two feet away at the bar, his face turned mostly away from her.

Her gut instinct was to move, not to let him catch her, though she wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter. Stockton seemed to sense her presence, turned and spotted her. He was clearly as surprised as she was.

“Well, well,” he said. “Of all the gin joints in the world.”

“Hello, Tom,” Phoebe said. “I could say the same to you. You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

“Hardly surprising, really,” Stockton said over the music. He was wearing a cropped brown jacket; underneath was a dark blue button-down shirt, the color of which perfectly matched his eyes. No doubt intentional, Phoebe thought. “This bar just might be the epicenter of our problems, and it seemed critical to check it out—especially tonight.”

He backed a few feet down the pockmarked wooden bar, making a place for her to stand next to him. He slid his drink with him—scotch on the rocks, it looked like. Not having a choice, Phoebe slipped into the spot next to him. “Living on a Prayer” had been pounding on the jukebox, but once it stopped, nothing else came on. It was like being in a room where someone uninvited has suddenly sashayed in, leaving the other guests speechless.

“I know what you mean,” Phoebe said. “The name Cat Tails kept turning up when I spoke to people, too.”

“In some ways, it’s just like every other college-town bar I’ve been in. But frankly, I don’t like the vibe here.”

“I hear a rumor’s going around that something will happen this Halloween weekend. Do you think there’s any basis for that?”

“No idea. What I do know, however, is that the students are hysterical. As an administration, we really need to get a handle on this thing.”

Was that a dig at Glenda? she wondered.

“I’m sure Glenda will bring things under control,” she said. “And I’m sure you’re an enormous help to her right now.”

Phoebe had allowed her tone to be the teeniest bit sarcastic, which she knew she shouldn’t have, but he didn’t seem to notice anyway.

The music started again, making it tough to talk. Phoebe followed the sound and let her eyes rest on the jukebox. Wesley had been approached by a slick-looking guy in his late thirties or early forties, but there was no one in here like that tonight—unless, Phoebe thought to her amusement, I count Tom. She noticed that the jukebox was right near the side door that opened onto Bridge Street. If someone had indeed drugged Wesley, it might have been easy to urge him out through that door without anyone really noticing.

“Well, that’s it for me tonight,” Phoebe said, setting her wineglass down, still half full.

“Why not stay a little longer, and we can grab a bite of dinner afterward? My treat.”

“Thanks,” she said, taken aback, “but I just ate at Tony’s.” Based on Stockton’s previous attitude toward her, his invitation surprised her. He probably wanted to pump her for info.

She said good night and climbed the hill to her car, nudged along by the river wind at her back. As soon as she was at the wheel, she knew what she was going to do. She was going to drive by Duncan’s. It seemed so high school, but if he was really home grading those papers he’d mentioned, she would at least know that he’d been honest with her.

But the house was dark, except for a light over the front door, and there was no car in the driveway.

Annoyed at how upset she felt, she tried to shake thoughts of Duncan as she pulled into her driveway. As she walked across the short expanse of lawn, she stopped in her tracks. The outside glass door was partially open. Someone had stuffed something white between that and the front door.