“I’m not following.”
“The ever-burgeoning body count in little old Lyle. It may not involve any of your celebrity crushes, but it’s the kind of juicy story Phoebe Hall generally likes to get her hands on.”
“Oh, I could never compete with you, Pete,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be someplace.”
Once inside her office, door closed, Phoebe collapsed at her desk and squeezed her eyes shut. She considered why Lily would have selected Duncan to seduce and exploit. She was a psych minor. She hadn’t taken classes with him yet but perhaps she planned to next term.
But then she fell for him. And perhaps something went wrong. Was Duncan the mess Lily had referred to during her dash with Phoebe through the rain?
None of this meant, though, that he’d killed Lily. But what if he had? Phoebe thought. It meant he probably also killed Hutch. Was it Duncan who had chased her through the woods that night? she wondered miserably.
There was one thing she could see: how easy it would have been for Duncan to frame Blair. Thanks to Phoebe, he knew all about the Sixes and the house on Ash Street.
As she leaned back in her chair, trying to slow her breathing, a chilling thought shoved its way into Phoebe’s brain: Lily and Trevor had drowned—and so had Duncan’s wife.
There had to be a way to learn more. She needed to talk to Amanda again, she decided. Lily’s roommate hadn’t known much about the new guy in Lily’s life, but asked some pointed questions, she might be able to cough up a detail. Phoebe called the girl’s number and left a message on her voice mail.
She also left a message for Wesley. She wanted to obtain a better description of the man at the jukebox, the one who had seemed to intrigue Hutch so much.
Phoebe then tried to turn her attention to paperwork, but she felt nauseous, too crazed to concentrate. Everything seemed to be crushing in on her. She gathered her belongings together and locked up her office. As she turned around, she saw Jan Wait approaching her in the hall.
“Phoebe, hi, I hope you got my message. How are you?”
“Much better than on Monday,” Phoebe said. “And I appreciate your call, Jan.”
She wished there was some way to pump Jan for information about Duncan. She must know a fair amount about him because of his friendship with Miles. But she couldn’t do it without shooting off a big red flare. She pictured Jan’s reaction to a comment like, “I’ve been shacking up with Duncan—would you happen to know if he’s a psychopathic murderer?”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Jan asked. “You don’t seem like a casserole kind of girl, but I’d be glad to drop one off if you could use it.”
“That’s sweet of you, but I’m managing pretty well now. It just takes some getting used to.”
“I know. Miles broke his foot last year, and it turned into such a drag.”
“How’s his angina, by the way? Is he feeling better?”
“Angina? Why do you say that?”
“Oh, didn’t he—”
“Miles doesn’t have angina,” Jan said.
It was the shove again, like someone ramming Phoebe between the shoulder blades. She fumbled for a reply.
“Um—oh, sorry. I’d heard a psych professor had an angina attack. For some reason I thought it was Miles. Well, look, I’d better run.” There was a roaring sound in her ears, and she couldn’t even think.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, yes, fine. I’ll see you later.”
She barely remembered the trip home. Her mind had scrambled over what she’d heard from Jan, trying to figure out what it meant. Duncan had clearly lied about Miles because he must have gone someplace else in those fifteen minutes. But where? Had he turned off the lights? To scare her off her research into the case?
Ten minutes after she reached home, Phoebe heard a dog yap outside and realized that Dan had arrived with Ginger. She swung open the door. Dan was tall—at least six-three—and he carried the tiny dog awkwardly against his body with one hand, as if he’d been forced to hold a woman’s purse. The sight of the little dog overwhelmed Phoebe with both grief and relief.
Though Dan was sporting a beard, Phoebe thought she could see a little of Hutch in him. “Sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances,” she told him.
“Same here,” Dan said, stepping into the house. In his other hand Phoebe saw that he was carrying a large bag of dog supplies. He set the bag down and passed the chihuahua to Phoebe. As she took Ginger into her arms, she felt the dog’s body suddenly soften.
“We couldn’t get into my Uncle Ed’s house, so everything’s brand-new. Oh, and there’s food in the bag. Any luck finding a home for her yet?”
“Not yet, but someone affiliated with the school is bound to want her.” She could feel the dog’s little snout pressed into her chest.
“She sure seems to like you,” Dan said. “She never did seem very comfortable with me and my wife.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said. “And again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
As soon as he left, Phoebe pulled Ginger back and looked into her eyes. “You’ve had a tough time, haven’t you, little girl?” Phoebe whispered to her. “I promise to take good care of you.”
For the next few hours, she tried to acclimate Ginger to her new situation. She showed her around the house, filled the bowls with food and water, and took her for a walk up and down the street. But as much as Phoebe attempted to focus on Ginger, her thoughts were constantly torn back to Duncan, to the idea that he might be a killer.
She tried Wesley twice more but didn’t reach him. She also called Jen Imbibio. She’d given the girl twenty-four hours to produce information, and it was time to confront her.
“Did you learn anything yet?” Phoebe asked when Jen answered.
“Uh, no. I just can’t come right out and ask about the circles. I have to, you know, wait for the right moment.”
“What about Fortuna?”
“Um, no, not yet. Not exactly.”
Phoebe’s heart skipped.
“Which is it, Jen?” Phoebe demanded. “Not yet or not exactly? Because not exactly suggests you found something.”
“I don’t have anything, you know, uh, specific. But I said something to the girl, the one in charge, and she got this kind of funny smile. Like she knew what I meant. But I can’t be sure.”
Phoebe fought to rein in her emotions.
“Did you find out anything?” Jen asked, filling the silence. “I mean, about the murder, that Blair didn’t do it.”
“I’m working on it, Jen,” Phoebe said. “But it’s a two-way street. I need some real answers from you, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow, and I expect to hear something.”
“Okay,” the girl muttered.
Phoebe walked Ginger once more, trying to tamp down her mounting anxiety. When she returned, she called Duncan, knowing he’d now be at class. There was no way she could stay with him again until she figured out the truth.
“Hi, it’s me,” she said to his voice mail. “I’m sorry, but I have to bail tonight. Glenda needs me for something important, and I’m going to bunk down at her house. I’ll—I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
And then what do I say tomorrow, she wondered in despair, when I still don’t have any answers?
At four she promised Ginger she would return shortly and, with her coat draped around her and a pashmina for extra warmth, she headed out on foot. She’d never been to the soccer field, but she knew where all the playing fields were—on the northern part of campus, west of the Grove and the science center. She entered the college through the western gate and walked north. Several of the playing fields were occupied—there were girls swinging hockey sticks on the one nearest to her, and football practice just beyond that. Farther down, she was pretty sure, was the soccer game—there was a fair number of people watching. Phoebe picked up her pace, eager to connect with Glenda. The ground was still soggy from the rain, and Phoebe felt her boots becoming damp. Though the pashmina helped her body stay warm, the wind was strong, and before long her face felt raw.