“Do you think that’s what the Sixes basically is—a sorority? Or is it sinister in nature?”
“Sinister seems far too strong of a word,” Stockton said. “If they’re the ones marking things with a six, then it would seem they’re just about making a little mischief. True, Alexis was pretty upset, but her meltdown might have been due to a combination of other factors.”
Phoebe touched her finger to her lip. “Glenda said you had reason to believe Lily might be involved.”
“Shortly after the term started—we’re talking the first week of September—maintenance complained that someone had been dragging some of the Adirondack chairs from the quad out onto the plaza in front of the student union every night. Turns out it was always six chairs. So I asked Craig Ball to position a guy to watch one night. Lo and behold, at three in the morning, he discovers two girls dragging the chairs across the grass. Lily Mack and Blair Usher.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“You bet. Separately. But they’d worked out their cover story by then. Claimed they’d been up studying and wanted to chill. Said they could see the stars better out on the plaza, away from the trees. And they denied doing it previously. Unfortunately the cop intervened before they’d dragged over more than two chairs, so there was no way to prove they were behind the other incidents.”
“What do you know about Blair?”
“Senior. Excellent student. Varsity field hockey. Beautiful. What your Hollywood pals might call an It girl.”
“I heard that Lily told her roommate she might stay with Blair Thursday night. Don’t you think it could be more than a coincidence that Lily planned to see Blair on the night she disappeared? I’m not sure if Glenda told you, but I spoke to Lily two weeks ago. She said she’d made a mess of things, and she seemed anxious to break free. Maybe the mess Lily wanted to pull back from was the Sixes, and they didn’t want to let her go.”
“College students are always making messes. There’s no reason to believe that the mess she referred to involved the Sixes or that her death has anything to do with what she talked to you about.”
Before Phoebe could respond, Stockton cocked his wrist to check his watch. “I should go,” he said. “I want to follow up on what happened with the parents at the morgue.” He reached back and tugged his wallet from his pocket. More buttery brown leather.
“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.