Next, she Googled information about drowned bodies. When a person drowned, she read, the body generally sank at first, but as it decomposed, the resulting gases forced it to the surface. The colder the water, the longer it took for those gases to form. At this time of year it might take well over a week for a body to rise to the surface, even if the weather was as warm as it had been. But a body didn’t always sink to the bottom. Sometimes it got caught on tree roots or wrapped in nautical rope along a dock. Maybe that’s what happened to Lily’s body, Phoebe thought, which would explain why it had been found so quickly.
Then she checked out the story Stockton had mentioned about students dying in the Midwest. He hadn’t exaggerated. In the past five or six years a dozen young men in just a few states had been found drowned after a night out. In all the cases, authorities had declared the deaths accidental, though some family members bought into the notion of a serial killer. Again, Phoebe felt her skin crawl. She instinctively glanced up to the window above the table. How horrible to even consider, she thought. But serial killers did move around. She’d read enough about Ted Bundy to know that he had begun his deadly spree in Oregon, moved on to Colorado, and killed his last victims in Florida. Stockton might be right.
Thinking of Stockton made her remember to check her e-mail. As promised, there was a message from him with the names of the two girls who’d exchanged the look during the committee meeting: Molly Wang and Jen Imbibio.
Bingo, Phoebe thought. Jen Imbibio was in one of the sections of her writing class. It would be easy to find an excuse to talk to the girl after class tomorrow.
She opened the file she kept on her students on her laptop and scrolled down to Jen Imbibio’s name. Jen had earned B-, C, and C+ on her three assignments so far. Phoebe had yet to review and grade Jen’s most recent assignment. She’d asked her students to write a reported article on any topic they wanted, and also a separate, first-person blog on the same subject, done in a much chattier, breezier style. Jen had chosen reality TV as her subject.
Phoebe reached across the table to a stack of papers, located Jen’s two pieces, and read through them. Her research for the reported piece had been decent enough, but the writing was stilted. For the blog, Jen had gone off on a total tear about the girls who were on the shows, girls who flaunted their fake breasts and were famous for nothing. The writing here was sassy and provocative in parts, a refreshing surprise.
Phoebe glanced at her watch. It was close to four o’clock, and she’d done nothing yet for dinner with Duncan. She jumped up from her desk and hurried into the kitchen. She’d decided earlier that she’d make spaghetti carbonara, which she’d planned to prepare for herself that night anyway. There were arugula and lemons in the fridge, which meant she could put together a salad with lemon vinaigrette. What about dessert, though? she wondered. There was still time to make a mad dash to the supermarket before it closed. But that would be trying too hard, turning the evening into more than it should be. There was fruit in the fridge, she realized—grapes and tangerines—and she could get away with serving those.
The doorbell rang at a little past seven thirty, just as she had finished beating the Parmesan cheese into the eggs. She’d already fried the pancetta, and the house was redolent with the scent of meat and garlic. It smells like a damn souvlaki stand in here, she thought with annoyance, wiping her hands quickly on a dish towel.
She swung open the door. Even though she expected Duncan, seeing him on her doorstep startled her a little. She realized that she was still not used to him sans beard and mustache.
“Come in,” she said, offering a smile.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I spent the afternoon with thirty feisty little rats, and I decided I’d better shower again. . . . Wait, this is Herb Jack’s place, isn’t it? At first glance, I’d say you’ve improved on it by about 400 percent.”
Phoebe laughed. “Thanks. Lucky for me he decided to put all his Civil War memorabilia in storage before he went on sabbatical.”
“You are lucky. I can’t really picture you surrounded by bayonets and muskets.” Duncan handed her a bottle in a shiny silver sack. “You said pasta, so I brought a Brunello di Montepulciano.”
“Terrific,” she said, impressed by his choice.
She hung up his coat, opened the wine in the kitchen, and returned to the living room with a glass for each of them. Duncan accepted his and sank into the sofa, one leg crossed over the thigh of the other. Beneath his jeans he was wearing weathered black cowboy boots.
“That must have been tough this morning at the river,” he said, as she took a seat in the old rocker across from him. “How are you doing?”
“It was tough,” she admitted. “And it’s hard to chase the image out of my mind.”
Duncan rubbed his thumb back and forth along the curves of the wineglass. “Have you learned anything about how the girl died?” he asked, looking back at her. “You have the inside track, of course.”
“I know as little as you do. But coincidentally, I had an interesting encounter with Lily two weeks ago.” She described the rushed conversation in the rain, and then decided to share what she learned from Glenda and Stockton about the Sixes.
Duncan placed his wineglass on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch. He was wearing a beige henley shirt with his jeans, the top two buttons undone, and though not tight, it fit his body well enough for Phoebe to see what good shape he was in.
“What do you think?” she said.
“Hmm,” he said. “On one hand, no, I’ve never heard about any secret society. But as soon as you said the words, it pricked a nerve with me. I’ve had the weirdest sensation from time to time—when I’m around some of the students.”
It was the kind of creepy comment, Phoebe thought, that someone makes in a horror movie, when they begin to sense that their house is haunted by a girl who died a hundred years ago.
“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.
“Hard to describe—in fact you’re the first person I’ve even mentioned this to because it’s been so vague. Sometimes when I’m talking to kids—usually outside the classroom—I have a weird sense there’s something they’re just not saying. Have you ever suspected you’re the only person in a group that doesn’t know something? You’ll see someone shoot another person an odd look. That kind of thing.” Tom Stockton had seen a look exchanged, too, Phoebe recalled. “Are you thinking Lily was a member?”
“Yes, she may have been.”
“If the right moment ever presents itself, I’ll probe the students a little.”
“That would be great—I’m trying to find out all I can. Speaking of the right moment, are you hungry?”
“Famished, actually,” he said. “I never broke for lunch today.”
She’d set up the drop-leaf table in the living room for dinner, and while Duncan refilled their wineglasses, she dumped the spaghetti in the pot of boiling water and then served the salads.
“So you know Herb, then?” she asked, after they’d begun to eat.
“Not super well,” Duncan said. “But I’ve been to a couple of his Christmas parties here.”
“Is there a lot of socializing among the faculty?
“About average, I’d say.” He craned his head around. “Why am I remembering a dining room? I keep picturing a big table with a steaming crock-pot of Swedish meat balls.”
Phoebe laughed, though she wondered why he’d been so quick to change the subject.
“It’s through that door over there,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “But I’ve set it up as my office. Herb used the second bedroom upstairs as his, but it’s under the eaves and feels so claustrophobic to me.”