“That’s odd,” Glenda said. “I don’t recall Craig ever mentioning he’d had any issues with Trevor. And I don’t like the word hassle. That’s not the way we like to do business with students around here. Let me investigate, Fee.”
After saying good-bye, Phoebe dropped the phone on the table and leaned back in the chair, considering the info she’d learned from Glenda. Stockton. Knowing that he had a predilection for college girls, it wasn’t hard to imagine him falling for Lily. But it was tough to imagine it the other way around—what had that pretty, inquisitive girl seen in that pompous bore? And yet Phoebe knew Lily wasn’t the girl she’d first imagined her to be. She’d apparently been up to her ears in dirty tricks.
So had Stockton thrown Lily into the river? If he was obsessed with her, he might have done it out of jealousy. Or rage, because he’d learned she’d first set out to exploit him. And when Hutch figured it out, Stockton showed up at his cabin and battered him to death. But how had Hutch learned the truth?
The situation, Phoebe realized, might be even sicker than Stockton killing a former lover. Maybe—if she was really going to push the envelope in her thinking—Stockton was the serial killer, drugging and drowning students. She’d seen him in Cat Tails. Perhaps he’d been there before. Was he the thirty- or forty-something man who had spoken to Wesley? Wesley had been at the school only two years, and might not even have been familiar with Stockton. She needed to show Wesley a picture of Stockton.
She heard the water shut off, and a few minutes later Duncan bounded down the stairs. His skin was dewy, and his wet hair was slicked back off his face. Later, after they slipped into bed, she reached out for him in the dark and ran her fingers deliberately along his chest and thighs.
“Are you sure?” he said softly. “I would love nothing more than to have sex with you, but is it okay with your injuries?”
“Well, if you think I’m waiting six weeks till this sling comes off, you’re crazy.”
She gave in to the sheer pleasure of his hands exploring her and the feel of him inside her. It was an utter relief to leave the world behind.
The next morning, she was first out of bed and had already put out a few provisions for breakfast by the time Duncan wandered into the kitchen.
“You seem like you’re in a hurry,” he said.
“There are a few things I must take care of,” Phoebe said. “Are you ready for a piece of actually fun news?
“Please.”
She told him about her decision to babysit Ginger for a while.
Duncan smiled. “That’s nice of you to do, Phoebe,” he said. “It must be so tough for her, losing both her home and her master. Speaking of that, I wonder if we’ll hear news of the case today. If the girls don’t confess, they’ll have to stand trial.”
Phoebe had already decided she wasn’t going to reveal specifics about Jen’s visit—it wouldn’t go down well with Duncan if he knew she was still poking around. But she wanted his take on one aspect.
“What if my first instinct about the murder was right? That Blair and Gwen didn’t do it?” she asked.
Duncan, leaning against the sink, lowered his coffee cup, holding her eyes.
“Anything in particular inspiring this line of thinking?” he asked.
“Someone informed me yesterday that Lily was in love with a man—not a student—who works at Lyle. What if he was the one who killed Lily and then Hutch?”
“Who told you that?” he said.
“I can’t say at the moment.”
“For crying out loud, Phoebe,” Duncan snapped. “Why can’t you leave this all to the police? You keep putting yourself in danger.”
She appreciated his concern, but she didn’t need him telling her what to do—and certainly not in that tone.
“I’m looking for closure in this case, just like everyone else,” Phoebe said firmly. “But I don’t want closure based on a lie. The police may not have all the answers.”
“I’m sorry I spoke to you like that,” he said, sighing. “I’m just concerned about you.”
She accepted his apology and began clearing the breakfast dishes. The next few moments were awkward and clunky. She could sense his mind churning and his mood darkening. But when he said good-bye a few minutes later, he seemed more like himself again.
“Why don’t we go out to dinner tonight?” he said. “I’ve got a little cabin fever these days, and I’m sure you must too.”
She agreed, and he kissed her good-bye. She locked the door behind him and peered out the window. As she watched him trip down her front steps, it was hard not to notice the sullen slump in his shoulders. She didn’t like what had just happened.
Phoebe checked the time. She had a few hours until Hutch’s nephew was due to arrive, and she intended to use the time to track down Stockton. She wanted to ask him about the committee and see what vibe she picked up from his answer. She called his office and was told he had back-to-back meetings this morning.
“It’s fairly urgent,” Phoebe said after identifying herself. “Can you tell me where he’ll be at around ten?”
“Well, I’m not sure if—” And then, as if sensing she sounded silly withholding the information, the assistant volunteered that Stockton was presently at a meeting in the basement conference room of the library.
This time Phoebe walked the short distance to campus. The skies had cleared, but it was in the forties, with a stiff wind that made the flags on campus snap so hard they sounded as if they would tear in half. Students were bundled up today, some even in parkas. Since she was only able to drape her coat over her shoulders, Phoebe was shivering by the time she reached the library.
The woman at the library’s front desk said she had no idea where Stockton’s meeting was being held, but that there were several meeting rooms in the basement. Phoebe nearly flew down the stairs, worried about missing him. At this hour the basement level was nearly deserted, and as she searched along the corridors, she passed empty stacks, study carrels, and the glass-walled area that housed a collection of Revolutionary War–era letters, donated by an alumnus years ago.
Finally she heard a murmur of voices just ahead, and the echo of footsteps on the concrete floor. Two women turned a corner onto the corridor Phoebe was walking down.
“Good morning,” Phoebe said. “You haven’t seen Dean Stockton, have you?”
“We’ve just come from a meeting with him, actually,” one said. “Make a left, and you’ll find him farther down on the right.”
Stockton was where they said he would be, slipping papers into a soft leather briefcase in the conference room. His camel topcoat and tartan scarf were still draped over one of the chairs. He turned at the sound of Phoebe entering the room.
“Well, well,” he said, clearly surprised. “You’re not someone I expected to see in the bowels of the library.”
Phoebe smiled sweetly. She needed to keep this light, though she felt her heart skip a beat.
“I hope that’s a compliment, Tom.”
“Of course. Are you on the mend, by the way?”
“Yes, thanks for asking.”
“I suspect it must be a bit like horseback riding. You’ll want to get on again before it becomes too frightening of a prospect.”
“I’m not following,” Phoebe said, wondering what mind game he might be playing.
“Your bike. I heard you took a nasty spill.”
“Oh . . . right.”
“Now tell me what I can do for you,” Stockton said. “Unless you’re actually down here to read about hardships endured during the Revolution.”