“Please, let me pick this up,” Phoebe said. “But before you go, can I get the names of the two girls who exchanged the look?”
Stockton’s eyes widened, as if he finally understood that she was really going to look into this.
“Why don’t I shoot you an e-mail as soon as I return to campus?” he said, then nodded good-bye and threaded his way through the tables and out the front door.
Rather than ask for the check, Phoebe ordered another coffee and mulled over what she’d just heard. God, she thought, secret societies and serial killers—Lyle is sounding more and more like the college from hell.
Regardless of how Lily had died, Phoebe’s job was to investigate the Sixes. She decided she would swing by Blair’s apartment as soon as she left Berta’s, and later, once she had the info from Stockton, she would try to speak to at least one of the two girls from the committee.
Phoebe also wanted to make contact with Alexis somehow. Maybe the girl had calmed down enough over the past six months to be willing to spill some information. There was a decent chance Alexis had transferred to another college, but it might be in the mid-Atlantic region like Lyle, and therefore fairly easy to drive to.
Outside, a few minutes later, Phoebe pulled her jacket tighter. The sky was low and dark now, and the temperature seemed to have plummeted in the forty-five minutes she’d been inside. Later, when she was back at her house, she’d have to dig out her down coat from whatever box it was still stuffed in. Well, at least that will give me something to do, she thought ruefully. Since she’d moved to Lyle, she found Sunday evenings to be particularly lonely, exacerbated by a type of back-to-school blues that must have been stirred up by being on a campus again. As a counterattack, she’d begun a ritual of making pasta on Sunday nights and eating it with a good wine. Tonight, of course, would be even tougher to contend with. She’d have the memory of Lily Mack’s body running roughshod over her brain.
Unbidden, Duncan came to mind as she walked, followed a second later by a crazy idea. What if she invited him for dinner tonight? Having company would help chase away the blues, and what’s more, she’d be making amends for the awkward situation on Friday. They’d exchanged contact information when their committee work started. She dug out her phone, found his number, and without giving herself a chance to reconsider, called him.
“It’s Phoebe,” she said after he answered. “Don’t hang up, okay?”
“You sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.”
“I am, sort of. I’m just walking up Bridge Street, and it’s windy as hell. Look, I’m sorry again about Friday night.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve licked my wounds and recovered.” His tone was good-natured.
“Have you heard the news about the missing girl—Lily Mack?”
“No, I’ve been holed up in the lab. Is she okay?”
“They found her body in the river this morning. I was downtown when they pulled her out.”
There was silence on the other end, and she wondered if the news had upset him.
“That’s tragic,” he said after a moment. “Do they know what happened?”
“Not yet.” She paused. “Um, look, I was wondering if by any chance you’re free for dinner tonight. I was going to make pasta.”
“You’re not trying to put Tony out of business, are you?”
“That would be tough. I only know about ten recipes really well.”
He chuckled. “Sure, dinner sounds good. The only hitch is that I’ve got to hang in the lab until about seven.”
“Why don’t you come at seven thirty, then?” She gave him the address.
“Red or white?” he asked.
“Red would be great.”
As soon as she hung up, she wondered if she’d been stupid to make the call. Would Duncan misinterpret the gesture? All she knew for sure was that it would be a relief not to be alone tonight.
She had a rough idea where Ash Street was and found it easily on foot after asking someone for directions. The house at 133 was a two-story clapboard, barely ten feet away from its neighbors on each side, its hunter green paint peeling badly. A rusted aluminum beach chair, the kind you fold up and toss in the back of your car, sat forlornly on the sagging porch. Phoebe climbed the steps. The front door was already ajar, and she pushed it open all the way. She found herself in a foyer strewn with boxes, old boots, mail circulars, blow-in cards from magazines, a couple battered skateboards, and one half of a badly dented bike. A row of pegs had been nailed to the wall, and a small jean jacket, probably a woman’s, as well as a pink slicker, hung limply from them. There was a door to the left, likely leading to the downstairs apartment; up a staircase she could see another door. She glanced at the two mailboxes, thinking they might provide a clue as to which apartment was Blair’s. But they listed only names—three male names on one, and on the other, Blair Usher and Gwen Gallogly.
She was about to rap on the downstairs door when it opened and a shaggy-haired guy, probably a student, stepped outside, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Sorry to bother you,” Phoebe said. “I was looking for Blair Usher.”
“Upstairs,” he said, lifting his chin.
“Thanks,” Phoebe said. She turned and took a step toward the stairs.
“But I don’t think they’re there,” he added. “I heard somebody go out earlier.”
“Why don’t I give it a try anyway,” she said. That’s another thing she’d learned over the years from her work: Believe only half of what people tell you.
After mounting the stairs, she rapped lightly on the door up there. It was heavily chipped, but there was a new-looking straw doormat on the floor in front of it, and tacked to the door was a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign designed with two black-and-red birds and the word
Just as she was about to leave, she heard soft footsteps making their way to the door. It swung open and revealed a tall, pretty redhead with pale skin. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and there were faint smudge marks beneath each eye, as if she’d slept in her eye makeup and hadn’t washed her face yet today. She was wearing a neon green camisole and tight jeans tucked into knee-high gray suede boots. A frown began to form on her face as she took Phoebe in.
“Yes?” the girl said. She cocked her head as she spoke, and the ponytail followed.
Phoebe introduced herself and explained she was a teacher at Lyle. “Are you Blair?” she added.
“No,” the girl said bluntly. “She’s not here right now.”
“Will she be back soon?”
“I’m not sure. What’s this about?”
Obviously the phrase “teacher at Lyle” had failed to elicit even a soupcon of respect.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about Lily Mack,” Phoebe said.
“Of course. Why—is there some other news?”
“No, but I’ve been asked to help in the internal investigation the college is doing. You must be Gwen, then.”
“Yes—and we’ve already told the police everything we know.”
“The school has to look into what happened as well. May I come in for a minute?”
“I guess,” Gwen said, petulantly. “If you’re saying it’s absolutely necessary.” Gwen opened the door fully, and Phoebe stepped into the apartment. To her surprise she saw that it was in total contrast to the junk-strewn foyer downstairs. Though the walls were cracked and blistered in spots, they’d been painted a pretty yellow in the hall and red in the living room beyond. There was an old gilt-framed mirror in the entranceway and a small table, both the type of used but respectable booty you lugged home from Goodwill. Everything was neat and tidy, almost disarmingly so. The only sign of student life were two field hockey sticks leaning against the hall wall, along with a padded knee brace. A ripe, sweet smell filled the air, as if a vanilla candle was burning somewhere.
“Sooo?” Gwen said.
“Do you mind if we sit down?” Phoebe said, pointing with her chin toward the living room.
“I have to meet someone in a minute,” Gwen said.
“It won’t take long, I promise,” Phoebe said. Begrudgingly the girl led Phoebe into the living room. Though
