“I wouldn’t have even remembered it,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “if you hadn’t mentioned that freaky girl group.”
“Did you know any of the girls by name?” Phoebe asked.
“No, not at the time,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that’s the most important thing I wanted to tell you. Like I said, I didn’t know the girls personally, but I’d seen one of them around. She was really pretty—in a different kind of way—and super stuck up. After you and I talked, I looked for her in my old student handbook, and guess what? It was the name you mentioned to me. Blair Usher.”
Phoebe’s brain was already on alert as soon as he’d said “pretty—in a different kind of way.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“And none of these girls ever came close to you that night?”
“Like I said, I didn’t notice. But they might have without me being aware. It got pretty crowded in there after a while.”
Phoebe let out a breath slowly. Could Blair have spiked Wesley’s drink that night? she thought. But why? Because he’d been targeted as a loser guy? She wondered if there was any way to find out if Blair had been in Cat Tails the night Scott Macus had died.
She sipped her coffee. She could feel an odd disquietude taking hold, but it didn’t seem to be about the Sixes this time. Something was bugging her, but she couldn’t tell what it was.
“This is all very good to know, Wesley,” Phoebe said, setting down her cup. “Did you tell this to the police when you talked to them this week?”
“No, I didn’t. I wanted to speak to you first.”
“Well, this is something you need to share with them, okay?”
“Do you think I’m in danger? Do you think those girls did it?”
“I don’t know, but as I said, it’s key to talk to the police. Will you do me a favor and not tell them we spoke? They generally don’t like civilians intruding on their turf.”
Wesley nodded soberly.
Phoebe picked up the saltshaker at the end of the table and ran her thumb over it, thinking. Something was gnawing at her.
“Is there anything else, Wesley?” she asked. “Anything else you remember from that night?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s it. I’m surprised I even remembered about that girl. Like I said, if I hadn’t talked to you, I probably never would have.”
Phoebe thought of the material Hutch had left for her. She knew she shouldn’t mention it to Wesley—at least until Hutch gave her the okay—but there was no harm in an indirect approach.
“One last question,” Phoebe said. “Do you think there could have been anything significant about that stranger asking you for change?” That was the part Hutch had underlined most heavily.
“Well, if he’s the guy who dumped me in the river, he would have needed to get close enough to me to slip something in my beer.”
“But why that line?”
“I’m not following,” he said.
“Why ask about change?”
“I guess he had to start someplace.”
Phoebe wasn’t getting anywhere. She signaled for the check and, after paying, walked with Wesley out to the parking lot. They promised to keep each other posted.
She wasn’t due at Glenda’s for an hour. On her way there, Phoebe stopped to buy a few supplies and groceries at the massive Walmart outside of Lyle—though the idea of cooking anything in her kitchen made her stomach turn. As she passed the boxes of pasta in the store, she thought of how exactly a week ago she’d served Duncan the spaghetti carbonara. Why hasn’t he checked up on me today? she wondered suddenly. It seemed like the right thing to do, considering what had happened to her. Maybe what was really going on in the car was a realization on his part that he wasn’t as attracted to her as he’d first assumed. Well, she thought ruefully, that solves the Where-is-this-thing-headed? problem.
She shoved her cart through the store, only half paying attention. As she reached the checkout, she spotted a depleted display of candy for trick-or-treaters and grabbed two bags of miniature chocolate bars.
She arrived at Glenda’s at exactly noon. Though she knew she was going to have to do some fancy footwork to convince Glenda to let her stick with her research, she was determined to make it happen. The housekeeper answered the door, unsmiling, and led Phoebe into the wood-paneled study off the far end of the living room. Glenda was standing there, but to Phoebe’s surprise, the expression on her face registered consternation, not welcome.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” Phoebe asked. The words were barely out of her mouth when she sensed the presence of someone else, and she snapped her head to the right. Tom Stockton and Craig Ball were standing over by the weathered antique desk, both looking stern. Clearly, there’d been some new development, and it was not a good one. Phoebe looked back toward Glenda for an explanation.
“Phoebe, we need to talk to you,” Glenda said solemnly. “Something’s happened.”
Phoebe didn’t like the tone of Glenda’s voice any more than she liked the expression on her face.
“What’s going on?” she asked bluntly.
“A student has accused you of plagiarism.”
“That’s—that’s impossible,” Phoebe exclaimed, and even as she spoke, she realized they were the same words she’d used last spring about her book. Her legs suddenly felt like liquid, as if they were about to dissolve. “I mean, I haven’t even published anything since I’ve been here, for God’s sake.”
“Take a look at this,” Glenda said, gesturing toward the desk.
A laptop had been set up there, and Stockton and Ball had clearly been studying something on it. Phoebe crossed the room, forcing herself to breathe slowly. I’ve got to stay calm, she told herself. It’s all some dreadful mistake, and I can’t lose control now.
“This is what the student brought to our attention,” Glenda said, pointing to the screen. “It’s on the blog you do for writers.”
Phoebe leaned forward and stared at the page that was up on the screen. It was titled “On Words and Writing,” fairly crudely designed, and there was a photo of Phoebe in the upper right-hand corner. She could tell from the dress she was wearing that the picture had been taken at a movie premiere in New York about a year ago. There was a short bio, which oddly stated that she had once edited a poetry journal. The most recent blog entry was titled, “Is Shorter Better?” It took only a moment of scanning the article for Phoebe to realize that though her byline was on the piece, it was actually an essay that one of the male students in her class had handed in as an assignment several weeks ago.
Phoebe reached a hand toward the keyboard, and as she did, Ball jerked forward slightly, as if his first instinct had been to stop her.
“Do you mind?” she said. “I’d like to see what else is here.”
Ball nodded curtly, and Phoebe studied the site. There were just two other entries, and both were pieces she’d written as a guest blogger for Huffington Post within the last two years—one on memoirists making things up, and the other on unnamed sources.
Phoebe turned back to Glenda, who looked ashen. “So the guy from my class came across this,” Phoebe said, “and reported it to you?”
“To me, actually,” Stockton interjected. Phoebe thought she could detect a little excitement in his eyes, like a hound that’s just picked up the scent of a fox.
“I hope you don’t honestly believe that I put this site together?”
“But who else could have done it?” Ball said.
“Anyone could have,” Phoebe said. She could feel her anger begin to boil, and she warned herself again to simmer down. “All anyone would have to do is go to a site like blogger.com and set up a blog in my name. They could drag a picture of me onto it from another site. And they could add on material I’d written for other sites. The two other pieces here are things I did write. As for the essay here that my student wrote, I shared it with everyone in class.”