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
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.
20
She continued to the porch and mounted the front steps. As she inched toward the door, she saw that the pale thing was a manila envelope. Her name was on it, written in thick masculine scrawl with a black marker. Probably not the Sixes, then, she thought. After glancing once more behind her, she stooped down and plucked the package from between the doors. As soon as she had it in her hands, she could tell there was a sheaf of papers inside.
She quickly unlocked the front door and hurried inside. After checking doors and windows, she brought the package to the small table in her living room and tore open the envelope. There were actually two separate batches
