“You’re scaring me big-time,” said Glenda.
“I know, it’s a sickening thought, but if Hutch figured it out, I might be able to too.”
“You? Phoebe, you cannot take this on, especially after what happened. Do you hear me?”
Phoebe reassured Glenda that she wouldn’t do anything that put herself in more danger. Before Glenda left, Phoebe asked that she track down the number for Hutch’s nephew in Allentown.
The next few hours were interminable. A patrol cop stopped by to return Phoebe’s house key, but that was her only visitor. After lunch an elderly woman rolled in a cart, offering the local newspaper, which Phoebe snatched eagerly to see the murder coverage. There was a small box on the front page about it, likely squeezed in at the last minute because the paper wouldn’t have had time for a longer report. As guaranteed by Michelson, there wasn’t a word about her.
Using her right hand only, she thumbed through the rest of the paper, just to give herself something to do. There were endless pictures of trick-or-treaters—kids dressed as Wolverine and Bat Girl and Harry Potter, and babies posing as strawberries, pea pods, and bumblebees. Someone had been killed on Halloween after all, Phoebe thought ruefully. Against her will, her mind found its way back to the sight of Hutch lying dead on the floor. If the killer hadn’t come by car, how had he or she gotten there? she wondered. Hutch’s cabin was too far out of the way for someone to have walked the entire distance. The killer must have parked somewhere and then reached the cabin by foot through the woods. Phoebe decided that as soon as she could, she would drive along the road and see if she could locate the spot—it might offer insight into who the person was. Something seemed to swim in front of her brain about this, but as she reached out for it, it slipped away.
Finally she was cleared to go home, and she alerted Glenda, who had offered to come back to pick her up. A nurse helped her dress, stretching the sweater carefully over her elbow, replacing the sling, and then draping her ruined peacoat over her shoulders. She was given an envelope of Tylenol with codeine and instructions on caring for her injured arm. The idea of going home filled her with dread. She thought of Duncan. She wondered if he had heard she was in the hospital.
It was cold and bleak outside, the sky once again covered with sooty smudge marks. But Glenda was back in kick-ass mode, a woman on a mission.
“By the way,” Glenda said, as she navigated their way out of the parking lot. “Stockton was asking about you earlier today. He heard from Cameron Parr that you’d had an accident, and he was trying to suss out the facts. I told him you’d been injured but that I didn’t know any details yet.”
“Is he using Hutch’s death to keep fueling the flames of panic?”
“Don’t know. But Madeline told me that at one of their strategy meetings, he made a comment about how the college should have put more pressure on the police when Trevor Harris disappeared. By the college, he means me. It’s pretty clear he’s finding little ways to undermine me.”
“You know, I’d almost forgotten,” Phoebe said. “Saturday night I stopped in at Cat Tails to see it for myself, and I found Stockton there. Claimed he was scoping the place out because it was tied to all the drownings.”
“Or he was looking for a student to hook up with.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe asked.
“When I first started at Lyle, I tried but couldn’t get a bead on him—like why he’d leave a really prominent institution to come here. About six months ago, an old pal of mine started working at the college Stockton left, and so in light of his behavior lately, I called her the other day to see if she could learn anything on the down-low. I heard back yesterday. Apparently Stockton was rumored to have had flings with female students. It’s not illegal for a professor to have an affair with a student, but it can be dicey, and most colleges frown on it, particularly if it’s a pattern. And a dean of students is technically in charge of all the students, so it’s even more complicated. Apparently he tried it one too many times at the last place, and they eased him out.”
“Any hint he’s done it here?” said.
“None. He’s either wised up or has learned to be more discreet. But regardless, it backs up my instinct that he’s not to be totally trusted.” She paused as she switched car lanes. “By the way, you’re bunking down at the presidential palace tonight. We can swing by your place first to get a change of clothes and whatever else you need.”
Part of Phoebe longed to be tucked away safely in that yellow guest room tonight, but she knew she had to take a pass.
“I really appreciate it, G, but like I said before, I’d only be putting off the inevitable.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“There’s another reason why it’s probably best that I don’t.” She told Glenda about Mark’s comments to her in the hall.
“He’s got a lot of nerve,” Glenda snapped. Phoebe had never seen her speak of her husband with such bite.
“What’s happening on that front?” Phoebe asked.
“It’s just more of that secretive thing, and it’s started to work my last nerve. This past weekend I found a receipt for a restaurant that he hadn’t mentioned eating at. He claims he was with a client, but he seemed flustered when I asked him about it.”
“Are you thinking he’s having an affair?”
“I came right out and asked him, and he told me I was being paranoid. It’s funny. He’s the one guilty of weird behavior, but I’m the one who’s being made to look crazy.”
Though she’d never been tight with Mark, Phoebe hated the idea of Glenda’s marriage possibly unraveling. Especially now, in the middle of all this other mess.
“What about trying some marriage counseling?”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about that. But I can’t do it right this moment. I need to focus on keeping the damn college together.”
Driving down Hunter Street, Phoebe saw long strands of toilet paper dripping eerily from the tree branches. They were from last night, she realized, the handiwork of some devilish trick-or-treaters, and yet to her they seemed like a warning. Go away. This is not a place for you anymore. I don’t want to stay on this street tonight, she thought, but where the hell can I go?
As they pulled up in front of her house, Phoebe spotted her car in the driveway and she grabbed the keys from inside, where the police had left them for her, before entering the house with Glenda. The cops had definitely checked out the scene inside—there were sooty marks on the kitchen counter where they’d taken fingerprints, and the spoons were gone. Slowly Phoebe eased open the dishwasher door and saw to her relief that they’d run the wash cycle. As Glenda waited, she did a search of the other rooms, and then the two hugged good-bye.
Once Glenda had left, Phoebe charged her phone and called the number for Hutch’s nephew, which Glenda had provided. Reaching only voice mail, she left a message offering her condolences and saying she wanted very much to talk to him.
Next she listened to a string of voice-mail messages on her own phone. Craig Ball had made contact, asking that she debrief him about Hutch’s murder. Though Michelson had said they were keeping her involvement under wraps, Ball had managed to find out about it—probably from contacts he had in the police department.
There was also a follow-up call from her agent, as well as the Lyle College tech guy, wanting to discuss the fake blog. Dr. Parr had tried Phoebe twice to see how she was doing, as had two other people in the English department, including Jan. And to her surprise, two of her students had called just to tell her they were thinking of her. She was surprised at how good the calls from them made her feel.