“Are you saying it’s a hoax, then?” Stockton said. “That someone created this to make you look bad?”
“Of course it’s a hoax,” Phoebe said. “Can’t you see how crude and amateurish this site is? Trust me, if I was putting together my own blog site, I’d do a hell of a better job than this.”
“See what I said, Tom?” Glenda interjected. She turned to Phoebe. “I never thought you had done this.”
“Then why call in the cavalry?” Phoebe asked sarcastically. Glenda flinched, and Phoebe turned back to Stockton and Ball.
“If you track the e-mail that set up this site, you’ll see it has no relation to me. I’ll bet it leads right back to the Sixes.”
Then Phoebe stormed out of the room without looking back. As she hurried toward the front door, she nearly collided with Mark, coming out of the conservatory. He gave her a withering glance.
“You’re more than welcome to bring yourself down, Phoebe,” he said scathingly. “But please don’t do the same to Glenda.”
Shocked, she just stared back at him. So she’d been dead right about the source of his recent coolness. She started to speak, but bit her tongue. It would only make things worse.
She barely remembered the drive home. She was livid. Evidently the Sixes had created the blog, and Glenda, despite her comment to the contrary, had clearly indulged Stockton and Ball in their investigation. Was that the price that she was always going to have to pay because of the plagiarism charges? Would people always doubt her integrity?
And then there had been the odd reference to the poetry magazine. That was something she’d done in boarding school. Had the Sixes dug up info about her past?
As she entered the house, her heart sank even more. If the Sixes had gone to the trouble of creating the fake blog, they surely would want the word to leak out. Phoebe hurried to her office, shrugged off her coat, and brought up the New York Post Web site on her laptop. And there, to her utter dismay, was a short item by Pete Tobias, “Is Phoebe Hall Up to Her Old Tricks?” He stated that a student had accused her of posting his blog as her own and that the school was investigating.
Completely ruffled now, Phoebe called her agent and left a message asking her to call ASAP. I have to fix this fast, she told herself, before it explodes. She also sent an email to the student who’d written the essay, explaining the situation. By the time three o’clock rolled around, she realized that she’d been so distressed she’d forgotten about Hutch. But he hadn’t called, so he probably wasn’t back yet.
When her phone finally rang at four, it was her agent, Miranda. “What’s going on?” Miranda asked bluntly. Phoebe gave her the broad outlines of the situation.
“Why would students do such a thing to you?” Miranda asked.
“I’m caught up in a bit of a mess, which I’ll explain later, but you’ve got to trust me—I’ve done nothing wrong in this whole thing.” Phoebe knew she sounded defensive—guilty even.
“I think we need to marshal the PR team again,” Miranda announced. “Let me try to reach them, though it’s going to be tough on a Sunday.”
By five Phoebe still hadn’t heard from Hutch. She called his number, thinking he might have forgotten that he’d promised to call first, but she reached his answering machine.
The doorbell rang shortly after, throwing her off guard. As she pulled the front window curtain aside, she saw four young trick-or-treaters standing outside. “Just a minute,” she called. She opened a bag of the miniature candy bars, dumped them into a wicker basket, and headed outside. After the kids trooped away, she left the basket on the porch and turned off the lights in the living room.
By eight thirty she still hadn’t heard from Hutch. She felt a small wave of worry, but let it pass. Maybe, she thought, he’s been out in his work shed all afternoon and hasn’t heard the phone. He might have been thinking she would just come over. She decided to do just that. Not only was she anxious to see him, but also it would be a relief to be out of the house.
She threw on her coat and tore out to the car. As she drove to Hutch’s house, she passed bunch after bunch of trick-or-treaters. She felt entirely detached from the world around her, as if she was living in an alternate reality.
As soon as she turned from the road into Hutch’s driveway, she smiled in relief. Even through the dense trees, she could see that there were lights on in the cabin, and as she drove closer she spotted both of Hutch’s vehicles. He was definitely home.
As Phoebe slammed her car door shut, Ginger shot out from the dark of the yard, making Phoebe jump.
“Hey, little girl. What are you doing out all by yourself?”
Ginger whimpered and leaped into Phoebe’s arms. Her body was wet, as if she’d been prancing around in a puddle of water.
“Oh, I hope you haven’t been a bad girl,” Phoebe said. “Does your daddy know you’re out?”
With Ginger still in her arms, Phoebe mounted the porch steps. The dog was wetter than Phoebe had first realized, and she set her down.
Before knocking, Phoebe brushed at the large wet mark now on her coat. It felt sticky, and she pulled her hand away to look. In the porch light, she saw that her palm was smeared with blood.
21
PHOEBE SCOOPED GINGER up again and scanned the little dog’s body for a wound. But she knew she wouldn’t find anything; she knew, with a rising sense of dread, that something was horribly wrong. Where was the old retriever? she wondered. Where was Hutch?
She clasped Ginger to her body again and stepped closer to the house. She saw through the outer screen door that the inner wooden door was slightly ajar, opening onto the darkened hallway inside. Phoebe rapped on the frame of the screened door and called through the opening.
“Hutch? Hutch, are you there?”
There was no reply, though from somewhere far off in the house—the kitchen, she guessed—came the faint murmur of radio voices.
“Hutch, are you okay?”
Behind her the wind snaked through the trees, making the branches moan. Phoebe spun around. The lamps behind the curtains in the living room were casting a jagged circle of light into the yard through the windows, but beyond that it was totally dark, and she could see nothing but the faint outline of trees. She was anxious to get inside.
“Hutch,” she called again, turning back to the door. “It’s me, Phoebe.” Ginger whimpered softly.
Phoebe breathed deeply and opened the screen door. The spring made a creaking sound as the door opened wide. She pushed open the inner door next and stepped into the entranceway. In the air was the familiar blend of wood smoke and pipe tobacco—and something else. Ginger twisted in Phoebe’s arms, fighting to get down, but Phoebe gripped her tightly.
“Hold on, Ginger, it’s okay,” Phoebe said.
But a second later, Phoebe could see that it wasn’t. Stepping from the hall into the living room, she discovered Hutch lying facedown on the floor, just in front of the couch. A pool of bright red blood bordered the right side of his head. And then she saw that blood was everywhere. It was spattered on the couch cushions and on the walls, even on the television screen. Phoebe groaned in despair.
Clutching Ginger, she staggered toward Hutch and knelt beside him. She knew she shouldn’t touch anything, but she had to see if he was alive. She set the dog down and groped around his neck for a pulse. She felt nothing, but wasn’t sure if she was doing it right. Grasping his shoulders, she heaved the old man onto his side.