“But you said you were meeting Bruce.”
“Did I say Bruce?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “Sorry, just a slip of the tongue.”
“Is he all right now?” Phoebe asked.
“Yes, he took a nitroglycerin tablet, but I wanted to wait and make sure it worked. Plus I think the lights going off is what triggered the attack to begin with. I would have called you, but I hadn’t brought my cell phone with me.”
“Um, don’t worry about it,” she said.
“You okay?” he asked, guessing there was something going on.
She started to tell him about the sounds by his office, but changed her mind. Maybe it was the radiator she’d heard, or else her imagination had gotten the better of her, heightened because of the darkness, and she didn’t want Duncan to think she was becoming a paranoid basket case.
“Yeah—the power failure just threw me.”
“Let’s skip the tour after all and head over to my place.”
Phoebe smiled, relieved. “Good. Right now I feel in need of a couch and a glass of wine. My shoulders are up around my ears.”
“How about a couch, a glass of wine, and a neck massage?”
“Even better.”
“Just let me grab my bag from my office. I promise not to go MIA again.”
As Duncan darted inside, Phoebe perched on the balustrade outside the building. Down the hill the rest of the campus twinkled enchantingly in the night, belying all the turmoil going on at the college—and the fact that Phoebe felt so discombobulated. I heard something, I know I did, she thought.
“I’m surprised you’re letting me drive,” Duncan said a few minutes later as he backed his car out of the science-building parking lot. “I was almost positive you’d insist on following me in your car.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe asked, puzzled.
“I know you like to be in control,” he said. He glanced quickly over to her, smiling. “That’s not a bad thing. Just making an observation.”
“You’re saying I would have felt more in control if I’d driven my own car to your house?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s more about later. Now you’ve got to rely on me to take you home.”
Phoebe laughed. “Oh, I see,” she said. “Well, as long as you’re not planning to drive me home at eleven o’clock tonight, I’m okay.”
She surprised herself at how forthcoming she’d just been with him.
“You better be careful,” Duncan said. “I might hold you captive for the entire weekend.”
The last line caught Phoebe off guard. She’d thrown the toiletries and underwear into her purse certain that she’d be spending the night, but she hadn’t thought beyond that. The idea of staying the weekend was tantalizing and yet also mildly discomfiting. She didn’t want things getting ahead of her.
“Well, let’s see how good a cook you are,” she said, smiling, keeping it light.
They had circled around to the front of the science building on their way out of campus. To Phoebe’s surprise, she saw Glenda’s husband hurrying down the front steps.
“What’s Mark Johns doing up here?” she asked.
“Hmm, not sure,” Duncan said, glancing over. “I’d heard at one point he was thinking of teaching a class in organizational psychology as an adjunct.”
Don’t let him see me, Phoebe prayed, discreetly sinking down in her seat. She had to be the one to tell Glenda about her little fling.
A minute later they passed through the northern gate of the college. “Where do you live, by the way?” Phoebe asked.
“In Winamac Acres,” Duncan said. “It’s ten minutes from here.”
She was vaguely familiar with the area—a fairly upscale subdivision that unfolded from the town.
“It’s not ideal, but I was in a hurry to find something new after Allison died,” he added. That’s good, Phoebe thought. I won’t be forced to use the bathroom where his wife died.
The outside of the house was attractive but standard—a shingle-covered ranch with a poplar tree on each side of the entrance. The inside, though, was totally unexpected. The walls between the kitchen, dining room, and living room had been knocked down to create a loftlike great room with a big gray stone fireplace. It had been decorated in a contemporary style but with comfy pieces—including a long L-shaped couch slipcovered in white canvas. The place was totally inviting.
“Did you knock the walls down?” she said as Duncan took her coat and hung it in the closet. “It’s a terrific space.”
“Yes, it was a bit of an extravagance, seeing that I don’t plan to be in Lyle indefinitely, but after everything that had happened, I needed a place that I felt really at home in.”
She followed Duncan into the kitchen area and slid onto one of the stools along the island while he uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux. He poured them each a glass. Then, after lighting the gas fire in the fireplace, he pulled out a large red pot from the fridge.
“Hmm, what do you have there?” Phoebe asked.
“Hunter’s chicken,” he said smiling. “With a name like that, I figured I could prepare dinner for you with my masculinity totally intact.” He set the pot on the burner of the stovetop and lit the flame. “Let’s give it about ten minutes to reheat, and then we’ll eat.”
He washed off his hands, wiped them on his jeans, and plopped on a stool perpendicular to hers on the island. After taking a drink of wine, he set the glass down and looked into her eyes. “Okay, Ms. Hall, tell me the whole story about last night—from start to finish.”
She went over what had happened with the dishwasher, filling in the gaps she’d left before. She also told him about her talks with Hutch, Alexis, and Wesley. Despite the relaxing effects of the wine, she found herself getting churned up as she rehashed certain details.
When she’d finished, Duncan didn’t say anything for a bit, just twirled the wineglass between his fingers.
“So tell me your opinion,” Phoebe urged. “Do you think there could be some kind of serial killer on the loose here?”
He shrugged. “It’s just so hard to know without being privy to any real evidence—what the cops have found. But there’s one thing I do know.”
Phoebe looked at him expectantly and was surprised when his expression became stern.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Maybe it’s none of my business here, but it seems you’ve gone beyond the call of duty for Glenda—and it’s time to let the authorities take over.”
“You’re right, of course,” Phoebe said. “Everything’s escalating. Besides, I feel I’ve done all I can do.” Which wasn’t true, she knew. She hadn’t found out yet what the other circles were. And she hadn’t learned who had killed Lily. But she could see it would be pointless to try to make any kind of case with Duncan.
“Is that a promise to cease and desist?” Duncan asked, smiling.
“Promise,” Phoebe said, without meaning it.
“Great. And you know what your reward shall be? Hunter’s chicken.”
For the next few minutes, she let Duncan do his thing while she sat curled up on the couch. She tried to keep the drownings and the Sixes at bay, forcing herself to concentrate solely on the flames dancing in the fireplace, the taste of the wine, and the reassuring sound of Duncan moving around in the kitchen. Once she jumped up and, smiling, used her phone to snap a picture of him cooking.
The stew was just the kind of comfort food she needed, and she devoured it. Over dinner she asked about Duncan’s background, something she hadn’t had time to probe much about yet. He was from the suburbs of Chicago, he said. He’d done his undergraduate work at UCLA but had missed the Midwest and gone to Michigan for his PhD—as she’d seen from the diploma—before finally teaching at Northwestern.