"Phil Turnball's name isn't on this list."
"Phil didn't graduate with our class."
Wendy felt a strange tick in her veins. "He took a semester off?"
"Uh, no. He was forced to leave school early."
"Wait. Are you saying that Phil Turnball didn't graduate?"
"To the best of my knowledge, well, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."
Wendy felt her mouth go dry. "Why not?"
"I don't know for sure. There were rumors, of course. The whole deal was kept hush-hush."
She stayed very still, very calm. "Could you tell me about it?"
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"It could be very important."
"How? It was years ago-and really, I think the school probably overreacted."
"I won't report it. This is off the record."
"I don't know."
This was no time for subtlety. She had offered the carrot. Time to bring out the stick. "Look, I already said it's off the record, but if you don't come clean, I will go back on it. And I will dig. I will dig up every skeleton I can find to learn the truth. And then it will all be on the record."
"I hate being threatened."
"And I hate being stalled."
He sighed. "Like I said, it wasn't a big deal. And I don't really know for sure."
"But?"
"But, okay, it sounds worse than it is, but the rumor is Phil got caught off-hours in a building where he didn't belong. In short, a campus breaking-and-entering."
"He was stealing?"
"Heavens no," he said, as if that was the most ridiculous thing he ever heard. "It was for fun."
"You guys break into buildings for fun?"
"I have a friend who went to Hampshire College. Do you know it? Anyway, he got fifty points for stealing a campus bus. Some professors wanted to expel him, but like with Phil, it was all part of a game. He just got a two-week suspension. I confess that I participated too. My team spray-painted a professor's car. Thirty points. A friend of mine stole a pen off the desk of a visiting poet laureate. The game ran campus-wide. I mean, all the dorms competed."
"Competed in what?" she asked.
Lawrence Cherston smiled. "The hunt, of course," he said. "The scavenger hunt."
CHAPTER 32
"WE SHOULDN'T HUNT no more…"
That was what Kelvin Tilfer had told her.
Now, maybe, that made some sense. She asked Lawrence Cherston some more about it, about scar face and all the rest, but there was nothing more to learn here. Phil Turnball had been caught where he wasn't supposed to be during a scavenger hunt. He had been expelled for it. The end.
When Wendy got back to her car, she took out her phone to call Phil.
There were sixteen messages.
Her first thought made her heart slam into her throat: Something happened to Charlie.
She quickly pressed down on the V to get her voice mail. As soon as she heard the first message, the grip of fear slackened. A different sort of sick feeling washed over her. It wasn't Charlie. But it wasn't good either.
"Hi, Wendy, this is Bill Giuliano from ABC News. We would like to talk to you about accusations of inappropriate behavior on your part…" BEEP.
"We're writing a story about your affair with your boss and we'd love to hear your side of the story…" BEEP.
"One of the alleged pedophiles you exposed on your show is using the recent reports on your sexually aggressive behavior to ask for a new trial. He now claims you were a scorned lover and set him up…" BEEP.
She hit the cancel button and stared at her phone. Damn. She wanted to rise above it, dismiss the whole thing.
But oh man. She was so screwed.
Maybe she should have listened to Phil and stayed out of it. Now there was no way-no matter what she did-that she'd escape these allegations unscathed. No friggin' way. She could catch the asswipe who posted all this crap, have him (or her) admit during live coverage of the Super Bowl that it was all a pack of lies, and it still wouldn't scrub her clean. Unfair or not, the stink would linger, probably forever.
So no use crying over spilled milk, right?
Another thought hit her: Couldn't the same be said about the men she nailed on her show?
Even if these guys were ultimately proven innocent, would the stink of being a televised predator ever wash off them? Maybe this was all some kind of cosmic payback. Maybe this was karma being a total bitch.
No time to worry about it now. Or maybe it was all one and the same. Somehow it all seemed connected-what she'd done, what happened to the men she exposed, what happened to these guys at Princeton. Solve one and the rest would fall into place.
Like it or not, her life was enmeshed in this mess. She couldn't walk away.
Phil Turnball had been expelled for participating in a scavenger hunt.
That meant, at best, he lied to her when she told him about Kelvin ranting about the hunt. At worst… well, she wasn't sure yet what the worst was. She dialed Phil's mobile. No answer. She dialed the house. No answer. She called Phil's cell again, this time leaving a message:
"I know about the scavenger hunt. Call me."
Five minutes later, she pounded on the dean's door. No answer. She pounded some more. Still no answer. Oh no. No way. She circled the house, peering in windows. The lights were out. She pressed her face to the window, trying to get a better look. If campus police came by, she'd try not to quake in fear.
Movement.
"Hey!"
No reply. She looked again. Nothing. She knocked on the window. No one came to it. She went back to the front door, started pounding again. From behind her a man said, "May I help you?"
She turned toward the voice. When she saw who had spoken, the first word that came to mind was "fop." The man's wavy hair was a tad too long. He wore a tweed jacket with patched sleeves and a bow tie-a look that could only thrive or even exist in the rarified air of upscale educational institutions.
"I'm looking for the dean," Wendy said.
"I'm Dean Lewis," he said. "What can I do for you?"
No time for games or subtlety, she thought. "Do you know Dan Mercer?"
He hesitated as though thinking about it. "The name rings a bell," the dean said. "But…" He spread his hands and shrugged. "Should I?"
"I would think so," Wendy said. "For the past twenty years, he's visited your house every other Saturday."
"Ah." He smiled. "I've only lived here for four years. My predecessor Dean Pashaian was here before then. But I think I know who you mean."
"Why did he visit you?"
"He didn't. I mean, yes, he came to this house. But it wasn't to see me. Or Dean Pashaian for that matter."
"Why then?"
He stepped past her and unlocked the door with the key. He pushed the door open. It actually creaked. He leaned his head in. "Christa?"
The house was dark. He waved for her to follow him inside. She did so. She stood in the foyer.
A woman's voice called out, "Dean?"
Footsteps started toward them. Wendy turned toward the dean. He gave her a look that offered up something akin to a warning.
What the…?
"I'm in the foyer," he said.
More footsteps. Then the female voice-Christa's?-again: "Your four o'clock canceled. You also need-"
Christa entered from their left via the dining room. She stopped. "Oh, I didn't know you had company."
"She's not here to see me," Dean Lewis said.
"Oh?"
"I think she's here to see you."
The woman turned her head to the side, almost like a dog does when trying to contemplate a new sound. "Are you Wendy Tynes?" she asked.
"Yes."
Christa nodded as though she'd been expecting Wendy for a very long time. She took another step forward. Now there was some light on her face. Not much. But enough. When Wendy saw her face, she nearly gasped out loud-not because of the sight, though that would have been enough under normal circumstances. No, Wendy nearly gasped because another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place.