“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.
8
IT’S THEM, SHE thought, her heart starting to thump. The Sixes. They’ve been here, they left the apples.
She spun around, almost knocking over one of the kitchen chairs.
How had they gotten in? Her eye shot to the kitchen door with the window on the upper half. Each week she left the key for the cleaning lady under a flowerpot on the back stoop. Maybe they’d been watching the house and seen Margaret retrieve it.
Phoebe couldn’t believe they’d had the nerve to sneak into her house.
She flipped on the stoop light, opened the back door, and stepped outside. Peering into the twilight, she wondered if someone might be out there, watching her. She quickly turned over the flowerpot and grabbed the key still beneath it. Phoebe stepped back inside and turned the lock on the door. She also slipped on the chain lock. Next she checked the front door. Still locked. She did a quick circle through the rooms, making sure nothing was disturbed, and then tentatively mounted the stairs. She doubted anyone would still be in the house, and yet her pulse quickened as she opened each of the two bedroom doors and scanned the rooms. Nothing unusual.
Back downstairs she studied the table in her office. There was no indication that anything on her desk had been touched. They’ve been in this room, though, she thought. She could sense it.
Returning to the kitchen, she stood by the table and stared at the apples. I’m being paranoid, she chided herself. She didn’t even know if the Sixes actually existed, and besides, there could be another explanation. Maybe Duncan had left the apples as a thank-you gesture. He might have dropped by and, not finding her home, checked around for a key. But she couldn’t imagine him entering uninvited.
Phoebe dumped the apples in the trash with a thud, picked up her cell phone again, and called Glenda. She was surprised when her friend actually picked up.
“Hey, I was just about to call you with an update,” Glenda said. “Have you recovered from yesterday?”
“Partly. But something weird just happened. I think the Sixes may have paid me a visit at home.”
“What do you mean?” Glenda asked urgently. Phoebe described finding the six apples in her kitchen.
“Damn, I can’t believe this,” Glenda said. “I’m coming over.”
“Don’t be silly, I’m sure you’re swamped.”
“Then why don’t you come by my place for dinner? We’ve scheduled a memorial service for Lily tomorrow night and I need to review the plans, but I’ll be home in two hours. Mark’s at a meeting and Brandon’s going to eat early, which means we can sit and talk.”
Phoebe agreed to the offer. She was eager not only for the company but for the opportunity to hash things out with Glenda. Until it was time to leave, Phoebe tackled her e-mail, but she found it difficult to concentrate. She kept trying to imagine who had come into her house. One person? A group of them? Was it the Sixes? Don’t let them get to you, she told herself. You’re not fifteen years old. But when it was finally time to head to Glenda’s, she left at least one light burning in each of the downstairs rooms.
Glenda swung open the front door of her house only seconds after Phoebe let go of the heavy old-fashioned knocker, and to her surprise, Phoebe found her friend standing in the foyer with a man she vaguely recognized. There was something military-looking about him—the ramrod-straight posture, the cropped hair—and right away Phoebe thought cop. His overly pink skin made his piercing blue eyes nearly pop out of his face.
“Phoebe Hall, this is Detective Michelson,” Glenda said. “He’s leading the investigation into Lily’s death.”
“Nice to meet you,” Phoebe said, reaching out her hand. Michelson gripped it firmly, but his eyes barely took her in, as if he’d instantly assessed her as unimportant to his efforts.
“Thank you for stopping by,” Glenda told him. “It’s very important that the school and community work together on this.”
After Glenda closed the door behind him, she kicked her teal-colored high heels onto the faded Oriental runner. She was wearing a wool dress and jacket—the same color as the shoes—that Phoebe guessed she’d been in for the entire day.