The Sixes

by Kate White

  “I wouldn’t have even remembered it,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “if you hadn’t mentioned that freaky girl group.”

  “Did you know any of the girls by name?” Phoebe asked.

  “No, not at the time,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, that’s the most important thing I wanted to tell you. Like I said, I didn’t know the girls personally, but I’d seen one of them around. She was really pretty—in a different kind of way—and super stuck up. After you and I talked, I looked for her in my old student handbook, and guess what? It was the name you mentioned to me. Blair Usher.”

  Phoebe’s brain was already on alert as soon as he’d said “pretty—in a different kind of way.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “And none of these girls ever came close to you that night?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t notice. But they might have without me being aware. It got pretty crowded in there after a while.”

  Phoebe let out a breath slowly. Could Blair have spiked Wesley’s drink that night? she thought. But why? Because he’d been targeted as a loser guy? She wondered if there was any way to find out if Blair had been in Cat Tails the night Scott Macus had died.

  She sipped her coffee. She could feel an odd disquietude taking hold, but it didn’t seem to be about the Sixes this time. Something was bugging her, but she couldn’t tell what it was.

  “This is all very good to know, Wesley,” Phoebe said, setting down her cup. “Did you tell this to the police when you talked to them this week?”

  “No, I didn’t. I wanted to speak to you first.”

  “Well, this is something you need to share with them, okay?”

  “Do you think I’m in danger? Do you think those girls did it?”

  “I don’t know, but as I said, it’s key to talk to the police. Will you do me a favor and not tell them we spoke? They generally don’t like civilians intruding on their turf.”

  Wesley nodded soberly.

  Phoebe picked up the saltshaker at the end of the table and ran her thumb over it, thinking. Something was gnawing at her.

  “Is there anything else, Wesley?” she asked. “Anything else you remember from that night?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s it. I’m surprised I even remembered about that girl. Like I said, if I hadn’t talked to you, I probably never would have.”

  Phoebe thought of the material Hutch had left for her. She knew she shouldn’t mention it to Wesley—at least until Hutch gave her the okay—but there was no harm in an indirect approach.

  “One last question,” Phoebe said. “Do you think there could have been anything significant about that stranger asking you for change?” That was the part Hutch had underlined most heavily.

  “Well, if he’s the guy who dumped me in the river, he would have needed to get close enough to me to slip something in my beer.”

  “But why that line?”

  “I’m not following,” he said.

  “Why ask about change?”

  “I guess he had to start someplace.”

  Phoebe wasn’t getting anywhere. She signaled for the check and, after paying, walked with Wesley out to the parking lot. They promised to keep each other posted.

  She wasn’t due at Glenda’s for an hour. On her way there, Phoebe stopped to buy a few supplies and groceries at the massive Walmart outside of Lyle—though the idea of cooking anything in her kitchen made her stomach turn. As she passed the boxes of pasta in the store, she thought of how exactly a week ago she’d served Duncan the spaghetti carbonara. Why hasn’t he checked up on me today? she wondered suddenly. It seemed like the right thing to do, considering what had happened to her. Maybe what was really going on in the car was a realization on his part that he wasn’t as attracted to her as he’d first assumed. Well, she thought ruefully, that solves the Where-is-this-thing-headed? problem.

  She shoved her cart through the store, only half paying attention. As she reached the checkout, she spotted a depleted display of candy for trick-or-treaters and grabbed two bags of miniature chocolate bars.

  She arrived at Glenda’s at exactly noon. Though she knew she was going to have to do some fancy footwork to convince Glenda to let her stick with her research, she was determined to make it happen. The housekeeper answered the door, unsmiling, and led Phoebe into the wood-paneled study off the far end of the living room. Glenda was standing there, but to Phoebe’s surprise, the expression on her face registered consternation, not welcome.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” Phoebe asked. The words were barely out of her mouth when she sensed the presence of someone else, and she snapped her head to the right. Tom Stockton and Craig Ball were standing over by the weathered antique desk, both looking stern. Clearly, there’d been some new development, and it was not a good one. Phoebe looked back toward Glenda for an explanation.

  “Phoebe, we need to talk to you,” Glenda said solemnly. “Something’s happened.”

  Phoebe didn’t like the tone of Glenda’s voice any more than she liked the expression on her face.

  “What’s going on?” she asked bluntly.

  “A student has accused you of plagiarism.”

  “That’s—that’s impossible,” Phoebe exclaimed, and even as she spoke, she realized they were the same words she’d used last spring about her book. Her legs suddenly felt like liquid, as if they were about to dissolve. “I mean, I haven’t even published anything since I’ve been here, for God’s sake.”

  “Take a look at this,” Glenda said, gesturing toward the desk.

  A laptop had been set up there, and Stockton and Ball had clearly been studying something on it. Phoebe crossed the room, forcing herself to breathe slowly. I’ve got to stay calm, she told herself. It’s all some dreadful mistake, and I can’t lose control now.

  “This is what the student brought to our attention,” Glenda said, pointing to the screen. “It’s on the blog you do for writers.”

  Phoebe leaned forward and stared at the page that was up on the screen. It was titled “On Words and Writing,” fairly crudely designed, and there was a photo of Phoebe in the upper right-hand corner. She could tell from the dress she was wearing that the picture had been taken at a movie premiere in New York about a year ago. There was a short bio, which oddly stated that she had once edited a poetry journal. The most recent blog entry was titled, “Is Shorter Better?” It took only a moment of scanning the article for Phoebe to realize that though her byline was on the piece, it was actually an essay that one of the male students in her class had handed in as an assignment several weeks ago.

  Phoebe reached a hand toward the keyboard, and as she did, Ball jerked forward slightly, as if his first instinct had been to stop her.

  “Do you mind?” she said. “I’d like to see what else is here.”

  Ball nodded curtly, and Phoebe studied the site. There were just two other entries, and both were pieces she’d written as a guest blogger for Huffington Post within the last two years—one on memoirists making things up, and the other on unnamed sources.

  Phoebe turned back to Glenda, who looked ashen. “So the guy from my class came across this,” Phoebe said, “and reported it to you?”

  “To me, actually,” Stockton interjected. Phoebe thought she could detect a little excitement in his eyes, like a hound that’s just picked up the scent of a fox.

  “I hope you don’t honestly believe that I put this site together?”

  “But who else could have done it?” Ball said.

  “Anyone could have,” Phoebe said. She could feel her anger begin to boil, and she warned herself again to simmer down. “All anyone would have to do is go to a site like blogger.com and set up a blog in my name. They could drag a picture of me onto it from another site. And they could add on material I’d written for other sites. The two other pieces here are things I did write. As for the essay here that my student wrote, I shared it with everyone in class.”
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br />   “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

  P HOEBE 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.

  She could tell instantly that he was dead. His eyes were blank, his mouth slack. His right temple had been battered and was now a caved-in, bloody mess. Pieces of what seemed to be tree bark protruded from the wound. At the top of his head was another wound, caked with blood.

  “No, no,” Phoebe wailed, and choked back tears. Ginger scooted from behind her and tried to lick Hutch’s face. Phoebe grabbed the dog in her arms and struggled back up to a standing position. She had to call the police—but first she needed to get the hell out of there. She would call 911 onc
e she was in her car and safely out onto the road.

  She turned from Hutch’s body and started to cross the floor, careful where she stepped. She noticed for the first time that flames were dancing in the wood-burning stove, and it was piled with logs, as if Hutch had filled it only a short time ago. Instantly her brain processed the fact: This just happened. Her legs felt rubbery. Get out, get out, she told herself.

  And then, directly above her, a floorboard groaned.

  She froze in terror. Ginger began to squirm in her arms again, this time more forcibly, and then let out a sharp, tiny bark. Someone was up there, Phoebe realized, directly above her. Was it the retriever? she wondered. But it had sounded too heavy for a dog. No, she told herself, her mind strangely clear and precise. It’s the killer.

  She didn’t dare go back through the front hallway—the stairs leading to the upper floor were there. Instead she lurched through the living room into the kitchen. The radio was playing music now, a peppy song that seemed absurd to her in light of everything. Phoebe flung open the kitchen back door and clattered down the steps.

  It was pitch-dark out back, except for a faint glow from the kitchen light and some illumination from a sliver of moon. With Ginger still in her arms, she tore across the yard and into the first few feet of the woods that rimmed the back of the house. If only she could reach her car, she thought frantically, but by the time she made her way around to the front of the cabin, the killer might be down the stairs and outside the house. She had no choice but the woods, where at least she had the cover of darkness.

  She plunged deeper into the trees. What little light the moon cast was obscured now by the dense branches. She could see almost nothing, just the bare outlines of things directly in front of her. She was wearing boots, at least, which made it easier to scramble over tree roots and logs, but the ground was also covered with mounds of dead leaves, and they made a whooshing noise with each movement of her legs. She was afraid the killer would hear her, know where she’d gone. When she was about twenty yards into the woods, she stopped to catch her breath. And to listen.