The Sixes

head out into the hallway. There was no one there. When she pulled her head back in, Jen was standing up, waiting eagerly to be dismissed.

“Here it is,” Phoebe said, tugging a book from the shelf. “It’s a collection of articles by a terrific writer named Ron Rosenbaum, who first made his mark in the 1970s and ’80s. There’s a lot of attitude in his reporting pieces. I think you’ll be inspired.”

“Thanks,” Jen said, smiling weakly.

After the girl had departed, Phoebe stepped into the hallway. She could hear Jen nearly tripping down the steps in her hurry to leave, but otherwise it was quiet. Phoebe walked down the hall to the department reception area. Four or five offices fanned off it, all belonging to senior members of the English faculty. The receptionist, Bev, was sitting at her desk, staring at her computer screen, while the department chair Dr. Carr stood nearby, thumbing through a stack of mail.

“Why hello, Phoebe,” he said, looking up. He was about sixty, built like a bear, and surprisingly gracious to her, considering she’d been foisted on him by Glenda. She suspected he was slightly intrigued by her, as if he’d been asked to employ a parolee who’d served time for murdering her husband years ago. “What can we do for you?”

“I was just wondering if anyone was looking for me. I thought I heard someone come by my door.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said. “Bev, do you know?”

“I think most people are at lunch,” the receptionist said.

“Okay, thanks,” Phoebe said. She turned to leave.

“Oh wait,” Bev said, finally taking her eyes from the computer screen. “Maybe Dr. Porter.”

“Pardon?”

“Dr. Val Porter. I don’t know if she was looking for you, but she was up here a few minutes ago. I saw her at the copy machine.”

Phoebe headed back down the hall and on her way glanced into Val’s office, which was on the other side of hers. But it was empty. She wondered if it had been Val outside her door. It wouldn’t surprise her. She sensed that Val kept a close eye on her, curious as to what Phoebe was up to.

Back in her office, Phoebe unwrapped a sandwich she’d brought from home and considered the conversation she’d had with Jen. She’d scored nothing of real note, but there’d been that one interesting slip on the girl’s part. She’d told Phoebe, “I can’t imagine the girls here doing something like that,” even though Phoebe had never said the Sixes was a secret society of girls. It was another clue that the group actually existed and that Jen might be a member.

For the next few hours Phoebe read through material in her office and mapped out plans for future classes. But she had trouble keeping her mind on her work. She kept coming back to Lily and the Sixes. So far she hadn’t made a lick of progress.

It was almost six and already dusk when Phoebe decided to call it a day. Before long the clocks would have to be set back, and it would be even darker by now. Something to look forward to, Phoebe thought grimly.

As she crossed the wind-swept quad, she caught a glimpse of Jen Imbibio, walking with another student from her eleven o’clock class—Rachel, a tall, very athletic-looking blonde. Jen’s face was pinched, and her tiny hands moved animatedly as she spoke. Phoebe wondered if Jen was filling Rachel in on the grilling she’d been subjected to earlier, which could mean Rachel was a member of the Sixes, too. It’s like that movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers, she thought. You know the bad people are in your midst, but you aren’t certain who they are.

As she continued down the path, she spotted Craig Ball, head of campus police security, coming from the opposite direction. With his silver hair and tanned, crinkly skin, he looked like he should be flying planes for Delta, Phoebe thought. When he was closer, he nodded at Phoebe and ran his eyes over her face but said nothing. She was pretty sure he recognized her from the park yesterday morning. For all she knew, she thought sardonically, he had her on a list of security risks because of the plagiarism charges.

“Mr. Ball?” Phoebe called out just as he started to pass her. “We haven’t met yet.” She gave him her name and explained she was a friend of Glenda’s.

“Right, good to put a face to the name,” he said. “Can I be of some assistance?” His tone was brisk, suggesting that the offer was only perfunctory.

“I just wanted to introduce myself. Glenda asked me to talk to some of the female students here about the Sixes. I’d love to speak to you at some point and learn what you know.”

“Tom Stockton’s probably the better person to talk to right now. I get involved when there’s vandalism, of course, but so far there’s been only a minimal amount.”

“All right, thanks. If you do think of anything, will you let me know?”

“Sure.”

As she started to head on her way again, Ball reached out and touched her sleeve.

“By the way,” he said. “Did that guy ever find you?”

“What guy?” she asked.

“Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair. Came by our office asking for you this morning. I looked up your office phone for him, but said I wasn’t at liberty to give out anything else.”

“No one’s contacted me,” she said. “Did he leave his name?”

“Nope. Just said he knew you from Manhattan.”

Who in the world could it be? Phoebe wondered. She had a number of male friends in the city, but she’d been out of touch with most of them recently and could hardly imagine one of them just showing up on campus.

When Phoebe unlocked her front door ten minutes later, she was greeted by the scent of fresh laundry and Lemon Pledge. The cleaning lady, Margaret, had come and gone. For the first time since Phoebe had been living there, she felt a sense of comfort coming home. She changed into jeans and headed for the kitchen. To her surprise she saw that Margaret, a grouchy, taciturn woman, had left a bowl of Granny Smith apples for her. A scribbled note lay near them on the table.

Maybe I’ve begun to charm the old bat, Phoebe thought.

She picked up the note. “Please call me,” it read. “I need to talk to you.”

Oh, I get it, Phoebe thought. She’s damaged something, and the apples are her way of priming me for the conversation. Phoebe dug her phone from her purse to call.

“We need to discuss Thanksgiving,” Margaret said abruptly once Phoebe had identified herself. “I’m gone that whole week—at my daughter’s. If you’re goin’ away yourself, you may not need me. But I have a friend who can fill in if necessary.”

Thanksgiving, Phoebe thought. She hadn’t even noticed it looming on the horizon. After her mother died several years ago, she had stopped traveling to Massachusetts for the holiday weekend, and she and Alec had generally ended up going to his brother’s apartment in the city for dinner. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do this year.

“Actually, I haven’t thought that far ahead,” said Phoebe. “I’ll have to let you know.”

“As soon as possible then,” Margaret said brusquely. “If you want my friend, I’ll have to give her advance notice.”

“Of course.”

“Good night then.”

“Good night. Oh, and thank you very much for the apples.”

“Apples?”

Phoebe hesitated, confused.

“The bowl of apples on my table. You didn’t leave them?”

“Nope, wasn’t me.”

Then who? Phoebe thought, hanging up. She had no friends in Lyle who would have just popped by. Besides, the house had been locked.

She glanced back at the apples, and unconsciously her brain began to count. There were six of them.