The Sixes (5 page)

Phoebe ordered coffee and waited. Finally, nearly twenty minutes late, Stockton arrived, ducking his six-something length under the upper doorframe as he entered. He was good-looking in an uptight, Waspy way, and probably in his late thirties. Catching Phoebe’s hand wave, he wove through the tables to the back of the café.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, pulling a chair out. “It’s been perfectly crazy.”

“I can only imagine,” Phoebe said.

“Nice to officially meet you, by the way,” he said, reaching across the table to shake her hand. His grip was so hard it pinched her fingers. He shrugged off his navy barn jacket, letting it sag behind him. He was wearing pressed khaki pants with a crisp blue cotton shirt and a belt of buttery brown leather. His dark blond hair was short, worn in a classic side-part style, and his skin was smooth and clear, except for a tiny razor cut on his strong chin. He looked like the kind of guy who should be working at a distinguished college like Williams or Middlebury; she wondered how he’d ended up at Lyle.

“Same here,” she said, forcing a smile. There was a snootiness to the guy that was already rubbing her the wrong way.

“How are you liking teaching?” he asked. “It’s a whole different ball game for you, isn’t it?”

“Completely different ball game,” Phoebe said. “But I’m enjoying it.”

Enjoying
was a stretch, but Phoebe was hardly going to be candid with Stockton.

“And I hear you and Glenda go way back,” Stockton said, his slate-colored eyes curious. “You went to boarding school together.”

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, hurriedly. She was anxious to abandon that topic and get on to what mattered. Thankfully the waitress came by to take Stockton’s order.

“So, tell me about this morning,” he said, turning his attention back to Phoebe. “You just happened to be downtown in the park when they found the body?”

What the heck was he implying, she wondered. That she was some sort of ambulance chaser?

“Actually I was coming off the bike path after a ride,” Phoebe said. “I saw the commotion in the park and headed over.”

“Was there any bruising on the body? Any indication that she’d been attacked?”

“I never got that close.”

“Did you have any sense of what might have happened?”

“No, just that she’d clearly been in the water for a while. Are there surveillance cameras downtown, do you know? I’ve been wondering if one of them picked up something the night Lily disappeared.”

Stockton scoffed. “I’m afraid we local yokels in Lyle haven’t quite caught up with New York and London in that regard,” he said. Was that a dig? she wondered. Regardless, she wasn’t going to snipe back and risk pissing him off.

“At least more eyewitnesses may come forward now that they’ve found her body,” Phoebe said. “Glenda says Lily was last seen going up Bridge Street—after she’d left the Cat Tails bar. For some reason she turned around and ended up back down at the river.”

“Don’t you think it’s obvious that someone intercepted her walk home?” Stockton said.

“And convinced her to go back down along the river?”

“
Convinced
isn’t the word I had in mind,” he said.

“What about the possibility of suicide?” Phoebe asked.

“Why start up the hill if you were planning to drown yourself ?”

The waitress arrived with a mug of black coffee for Stockton and slid it in front of him.

“Do you mind if we switch gears for a minute?” Phoebe said. “As you know, Glenda wants me to look into this secret society—the Sixes.”

“I’m more than willing to discuss it, though I must admit it’s fairly low on my list right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Lily Mack’s death is one through ten on that list.” His voice sounded impatient. “Don’t get me wrong. We don’t want any kind of secret society on our campus. But the death of a student takes precedence over everything.”

“But don’t you think there’s a small chance that Lily’s death might be related to the Sixes somehow?”

Stockton leaned back in his chair and pinched his lips together.

“As I said, I’m concerned about the Sixes,” he said. “But even if they
do
exist—and that’s still an if—I don’t think they had anything to do with what happened to Lily.”

“What
do
you think, then?” she asked, because it was clear to her now that he had a theory. She took a sip of her coffee.

Stockton narrowed his eyes and stared intensely at Phoebe.

“I think we may have a serial killer on our hands.”

5

P
HOEBE GULPED DOWN
her coffee in surprise.

“What
?
”
she said.

Stockton quickly turned his head to the right and then to the left, making sure no one was eavesdropping.

“This has to be under the cone of silence, all right?” He waited for Phoebe’s nod. “I think there may be a predator out there who gets his jollies from drugging college students and drowning them in the river.”

“But who are the other victims besides Lily?” Phoebe asked, still taken aback. She wondered why Glenda hadn’t mentioned anything about this.

“We had a student drown in the Winamac the April before last. A senior named Scott Macus.”

“But Glenda told me he’d been out drinking and stumbled into the river.”

“That’s what everyone assumed. But after I heard about Lily this morning, I went back and looked at Scott’s file. The blood alcohol report indicated he’d had about three beers. Hardly enough to make most guys disoriented. The last place he was seen was at Cat Tails—sound familiar? Then, according to his friends, he just disappeared. They said it was totally unlike him to go off without telling them.”

“Were there any marks on his body?” Phoebe asked.

“Nothing to indicate a struggle. But if someone’s been drugged, it wouldn’t take much to force them into the river.”

“Two deaths don’t necessarily add up to a serial killer,” Phoebe said.

“You’re right,” Stockton replied. “But those aren’t the only deaths. Ever hear of Parker-Hyde College? It’s about an hour and a half north of here on the river. A male student drowned there a year ago. And there have been a number of similar cases in the Midwest—all involving college students who mysteriously drowned after a night out but who didn’t appear to be inebriated.”

“How awful,” Phoebe said. “Have any of the drowning victims other than Lily been female?”

“Not that I’m aware of. But I’ve just begun to look into this. I haven’t even had a chance to mention this to Glenda.”

Phoebe glanced away, thinking. Stockton’s theory made her skin crawl. Could it really be true? It seemed far-fetched, and yet she’d read that serial killers did migrate from one area to another. God, she thought, if Glenda was concerned about the impact of a secret society on Lyle’s admissions, Phoebe could only imagine what news of a serial killer would do.

“Do you mind if we get back to the Sixes for a minute?” Phoebe asked. “Lily’s death might not be connected to them, but Glenda wants me to look into the group regardless. As you said, it’s a problem in its own right.”

Stockton pinched his lips together again and examined some imaginary thing floating on the top of his coffee.

“I hope you won’t take offense,” he said, lifting his head up. Then he shot her a patronizing smile. “But I’ve got to be perfectly blunt here. This kind of problem should be handled by someone from the administration, or at the very least by a regular faculty member.
Not
. . . an outsider.”

Phoebe took a breath before answering. “But as we both know, sometimes an outsider has a better shot at obtaining information,” she said.

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.” Stockton sniffed. “But you’ve been at the college for less than two months.”

It took everything Phoebe had to smile nicely at him. The guy was pompous and arrogant, but she needed his full cooperation.

“Why don’t I start with my research and see how it goes,” Phoebe said. “If it doesn’t work, or if it creates problems, Glenda certainly isn’t going to want me to continue.”

He shrugged, forced to resign. “Okay. What do you need to know?”

“Glenda said you first heard about the Sixes when a student ended up in the ER last spring.”

“Correct. It was early May. I received a call one night from the manager of the ER at Cranberry Medical Center—it’s about ten miles north of here. A student named Alexis Grey had arrived there hyperventilating. She was alone, by the way, and it was unclear how she’d gotten to the hospital. After they examined her, it was obvious she was having a panic attack, which intensified when they suggested having someone from the college come and fetch her. She blurted out something about having been a part of this secret society called the Sixes, and that when she’d quit the group, they’d begun to torment her. But that was the most anyone was ever able to get out of her. I went to see her that night, but she refused to talk to me. Her parents arrived the next morning, and brought her home—she’s from the Baltimore area—and she refused to return to Lyle. There were only a few weeks left of classes, but she chose to forfeit the entire term. I tried to get the parents to talk to me, but either Alexis had forbidden them to or they knew nothing.”

“And other than that incident, the only hint of the group has been the number six showing up on campus?”

“Yes, painted in spots, carved in others. Sometimes six things collected in places. But in hindsight, I realized I’d also picked up an odd vibe here and there. For example, at the start of this term I put together a student committee with the so-called purpose of examining quality of life on campus, but really I was following up on what had happened to Alexis. I wanted to see if I could spot any fault lines. At one of our sessions I mentioned that I thought it was a good thing that Lyle didn’t allow sororities. I saw a look flash between two of the girls—it was the kind of look that said, Well, we
do
have something like that. I tried to probe, but they went instantly incommunicado.”

“Do you think that’s what the Sixes basically is—a sorority? Or is it sinister in nature?”

“
Sinister
seems far too strong of a word,” Stockton said. “If they’re the ones marking things with a six, then it would seem they’re just about making a little mischief. True, Alexis was pretty upset, but her meltdown might have been due to a combination of other factors.”

Phoebe touched her finger to her lip. “Glenda said you had reason to believe Lily might be involved.”

“Shortly after the term started—we’re talking the first week of September—maintenance complained that someone had been dragging some of the Adirondack chairs from the quad out onto the plaza in front of the student union every night. Turns out it was always six chairs. So I asked Craig Ball to position a guy to watch one night. Lo and behold, at three in the morning, he discovers two girls dragging the chairs across the grass. Lily Mack and Blair Usher.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“You bet. Separately. But they’d worked out their cover story by then. Claimed they’d been up studying and wanted to chill. Said they could see the stars better out on the plaza, away from the trees. And they denied doing it previously. Unfortunately the cop intervened before they’d dragged over more than two chairs, so there was no way to prove they were behind the other incidents.”

“What do you know about Blair?”

“Senior. Excellent student. Varsity field hockey. Beautiful. What your Hollywood pals might call an It girl.”

“I heard that Lily told her roommate she might stay with Blair Thursday night. Don’t you think it could be more than a coincidence that Lily planned to see Blair on the night she disappeared? I’m not sure if Glenda told you, but I spoke to Lily two weeks ago. She said she’d made a mess of things, and she seemed anxious to break free. Maybe the mess Lily wanted to pull back from was the Sixes, and they didn’t want to let her go.”

“College students are always making messes. There’s no reason to believe that the mess she referred to involved the Sixes or that her death has anything to do with what she talked to you about.”

Before Phoebe could respond, Stockton cocked his wrist to check his watch. “I should go,” he said. “I want to follow up on what happened with the parents at the morgue.” He reached back and tugged his wallet from his pocket. More buttery brown leather.

“Please, let me pick this up,” Phoebe said. “But before you go, can I get the names of the two girls who exchanged the look?”

Stockton’s eyes widened, as if he finally understood that she was really going to look into this.

“Why don’t I shoot you an e-mail as soon as I return to campus?” he said, then nodded good-bye and threaded his way through the tables and out the front door.

Rather than ask for the check, Phoebe ordered another coffee and mulled over what she’d just heard. God, she thought, secret societies and serial killers—Lyle is sounding more and more like the college from hell.

Regardless of how Lily had died, Phoebe’s job was to investigate the Sixes. She decided she would swing by Blair’s apartment as soon as she left Berta’s, and later, once she had the info from Stockton, she would try to speak to at least one of the two girls from the committee.

Phoebe also wanted to make contact with Alexis somehow. Maybe the girl had calmed down enough over the past six months to be willing to spill some information. There was a decent chance Alexis had transferred to another college, but it might be in the mid-Atlantic region like Lyle, and therefore fairly easy to drive to.

Outside, a few minutes later, Phoebe pulled her jacket tighter. The sky was low and dark now, and the temperature seemed to have plummeted in the forty-five minutes she’d been inside. Later, when she was back at her house, she’d have to dig out her down coat from whatever box it was still stuffed in. Well, at least that will give me something to do, she thought ruefully. Since she’d moved to Lyle, she found Sunday evenings to be particularly lonely, exacerbated by a type of back-to-school blues that must have been stirred up by being on a campus again. As a counterattack, she’d begun a ritual of making pasta on Sunday nights and eating it with a good wine. Tonight, of course, would be even tougher to contend with. She’d have the memory of Lily Mack’s body running roughshod over her brain.

Unbidden, Duncan came to mind as she walked, followed a second later by a crazy idea. What if she invited him for dinner tonight? Having company would help chase away the blues, and what’s more, she’d be making amends for the awkward situation on Friday. They’d exchanged contact information when their committee work started. She dug out her phone, found his number, and without giving herself a chance to reconsider, called him.

“It’s Phoebe,” she said after he answered. “Don’t hang up, okay?”

“You sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.”

“I am, sort of. I’m just walking up Bridge Street, and it’s windy as hell. Look, I’m sorry again about Friday night.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve licked my wounds and recovered.” His tone was good-natured.

“Have you heard the news about the missing girl—Lily Mack?”

“No, I’ve been holed up in the lab. Is she okay?”

“They found her body in the river this morning. I was downtown when they pulled her out.”

There was silence on the other end, and she wondered if the news had upset him.

“That’s tragic,” he said after a moment. “Do they know what happened?”

“Not yet.” She paused. “Um, look, I was wondering if by any chance you’re free for dinner tonight. I was going to make pasta.”

“You’re not trying to put Tony out of business, are you?”

“That would be tough. I only know about ten recipes really well.”

He chuckled. “Sure, dinner sounds good. The only hitch is that I’ve got to hang in the lab until about seven.”

“Why don’t you come at seven thirty, then?” She gave him the address.

“Red or white?” he asked.

“Red would be great.”

As soon as she hung up, she wondered if she’d been stupid to make the call. Would Duncan misinterpret the gesture? All she knew for sure was that it would be a relief not to be alone tonight.

She had a rough idea where Ash Street was and found it easily on foot after asking someone for directions. The house at 133 was a two-story clapboard, barely ten feet away from its neighbors on each side, its hunter green paint peeling badly. A rusted aluminum beach chair, the kind you fold up and toss in the back of your car, sat forlornly on the sagging porch. Phoebe climbed the steps. The front door was already ajar, and she pushed it open all the way. She found herself in a foyer strewn with boxes, old boots, mail circulars, blow-in cards from magazines, a couple battered skateboards, and one half of a badly dented bike. A row of pegs had been nailed to the wall, and a small jean jacket, probably a woman’s, as well as a pink slicker, hung limply from them. There was a door to the left, likely leading to the downstairs apartment; up a staircase she could see another door. She glanced at the two mailboxes, thinking they might provide a clue as to which apartment was Blair’s. But they listed only names—three male names on one, and on the other, Blair Usher and Gwen Gallogly.

She was about to rap on the downstairs door when it opened and a shaggy-haired guy, probably a student, stepped outside, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Can I help you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Sorry to bother you,” Phoebe said. “I was looking for Blair Usher.”

“Upstairs,” he said, lifting his chin.

“Thanks,” Phoebe said. She turned and took a step toward the stairs.

“But I don’t think they’re there,” he added. “I heard somebody go out earlier.”

“Why don’t I give it a try anyway,” she said. That’s another thing she’d learned over the years from her work: Believe only half of what people tell you.

After mounting the stairs, she rapped lightly on the door up there. It was heavily chipped, but there was a new-looking straw doormat on the floor in front of it, and tacked to the door was a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign designed with two black-and-red birds and the word
Wilkum
. Both items were the kind of things a mother would send in a care package. Getting no response, Phoebe rapped again, harder this time. She waited. Nothing.

Just as she was about to leave, she heard soft footsteps making their way to the door. It swung open and revealed a tall, pretty redhead with pale skin. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and there were faint smudge marks beneath each eye, as if she’d slept in her eye makeup and hadn’t washed her face yet today. She was wearing a neon green camisole and tight jeans tucked into knee-high gray suede boots. A frown began to form on her face as she took Phoebe in.