So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 10

I blurted out what I’d learned from Sandy, nearly tripping over my words.

Collinson didn’t comment right away, and I could almost hear his thoughts racing over the phone.

“So you’re suggesting what?” he said finally.

“That someone else, not Devon, put the diuretic into the water.”

“But just because she said the water tasted funny is no reason to think someone else added the diuretic. Ms. Barr was apparently a very demanding woman. She may have decided she disliked the taste before she even added anything to the bottle. And it all fits with the pattern. Taking a diuretic is not uncommon for someone with an eating disorder.”

“Did you find any Lasix among her things?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

If he had found it, I thought, he would have told me, because that bolstered his position.

“But don’t you think something odd is going on?” I asked. “What about the bottle of ipecac disappearing?”

“I’m not saying there was no Lasix among her possessions, but if someone got rid of the ipecac to protect Ms. Barr’s reputation, don’t you think they might have done the same with the Lasix?”

“Well . . .”

“And ipecac is hardly something someone could slip into her food or drinks. She would have had to take that voluntarily. We know she was taking that, so it makes sense she was also ingesting a diuretic.”

“It just seems odd to me—her complaining about the water. I hope you’ll look into it more.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. They sounded uppity, like I knew more than he did.

“I assure you that we will be examining every angle. Good day.”

I phoned an update into the Buzz Web site and told them to flesh it out with the official statement the police had released online. Then I scurried across the street, ducked into a coffee shop, and ordered a cappuccino. I needed more caffeine to help me think.

Though I’d known foul play was a possibility, the info from Collinson was still pretty stunning. I thought back to the weekend and the several occasions I’d seen Devon with a bottle of water. When she wasn’t taking a slug from one, she’d set it down nearby. It probably would have been possible for any of the houseguests to drop something into one of the water bottles without being noticed. And what a vicious cycle that would have created. The diuretic would have made Devon thirsty, leading her to drink more water, which would have meant more of the diuretic in her system and then more thirst. With each sip, she was adding greater pressure to her system—already taxed by her low weight and vomiting.

I didn’t buy Collinson’s theory that Devon had dissolved the Lasix in water because she didn’t like the taste of the pills. She drank bottled water all day, so why would she want to muck up the taste of that? Taking a pill would have amounted to only a brief unpleasantness. Besides, the girl had swallowed ipecac, and that surely tasted like hell.

If someone had added the diuretic, they did so knowing that Devon was struggling with an eating disorder and this would help push her over the edge. They may have even known that Devon was on ipecac. Is that why the ipecac had been removed? To decrease overall suspicion?

Two names popped into mind right away as possible suspects. The first was Cap. He was supposedly having an affair with Devon. And Devon might have been putting pressure on him to fess up to Whitney. Once again I replayed the words she’d spoken to him on the deck Friday night: “You have to tell her. You said you would, but you haven’t.” And though he’d promised he would “tell her,” when a man drags his heels, it’s generally a sign that he’s not fully committed to the plan at hand. Maybe all Cap had wanted was a fling with his supermodel client and he had never intended to ditch Whitney—and all those plates of pralines. Fearful of losing Whitney if she learned the truth, he’d decided to remove Devon from the picture.

Maybe he’d even convinced himself that he wasn’t actually murdering Devon. He was just hurrying along the inevitable.

Of course, the other possibility was that Whitney herself had done it. Perhaps she’d gotten wind of the affair and decided to eliminate her rival. That might explain Devon’s meltdown in the woods and her concern for her own safety. She could have sensed that Whitney was onto her and Cap, and truly feared for her life. I wondered if I should now tell Collinson what I’d learned about the affair.

After finishing my cappuccino, I hurried home and went immediately online, where I looked up Lasix. It was what was called a loop diuretic, which prevented the body from absorbing too much salt. It was used in the treatment of hypertension and congestive heart failure—and to prevent thoroughbred racehorses from bleeding through the nose during races. But there was a downside. By forcing all that salt out through the urine, it could lead to a depletion of potassium—and an electrolyte imbalance. One of the first symptoms of a potassium deficiency was dizziness—which would explain why Devon seemed tipsy that night. She hadn’t been drunk at the table. She’d been in danger.

The bottom line: giving Lasix to someone with anorexia—who was already low on potassium—was comparable to giving a person on the edge of a cliff a hard shove.

And it wouldn’t be all that difficult for someone to lay his or her hands on it. Maybe the killer suffered from high blood pressure or knew someone who did.

From my desk drawer I dug out a clean composition book and bent it open to the first page. I’m pretty much wedded to my laptop, but I find that while I’m working on a story, making notes and asking questions with a number-two pencil in a notebook kick-starts my brain nicely.

I jotted down the names of all the houseguests and considered them one by one. Besides Cap and Whitney, Tory grabbed my interest. After all, she’d morphed into a cross between a bitch and a banshee over the dirty flirting taking place between Devon and Tommy. There was also a chance she’d known what Devon was up to with the ipecac—that stuff was probably common knowledge in the world of modeling. But she’d appeared to be on good terms with Devon when the weekend began, so why would she have come armed with a diuretic? Unless she had it in her own stay-skinny arsenal.

There were other possibilities. Jane clearly hated Devon. And she knew she might have an eating disorder. I couldn’t dismiss Tommy either. Devon had toyed with him. He’d made that comment to me about her being a tease. Maybe she’d jerked him around one too many times.

As for the others present that weekend, none seemed to have any obvious motive for pushing Devon over the edge, but that didn’t mean that they lacked one. For the moment, though, I was going to concentrate on Cap and Whitney—because that’s where the most likely motives lay.

I thought suddenly of Devon’s pregnancy. She’d conceived a little over a year ago. I wondered if the supposed affair between Devon and Cap had been going on for at least that long—and if the baby was his. “You’ve got to tell her” might have actually referred to the pregnancy. Devon may have been urging Cap to come clean about their situation for months and had finally reached the point of being seriously pissed off with her lazy-butt lover.

After finding a number for Cap’s agency through 411, I called his office. The girl who answered exuded the kind of confidence you can only possess if you are twenty-two, wear designer shoes, and have never paid for a drink in your entire life. I gave my name and asked if Cap was free to speak to me.

“Mr. Darby isn’t available,” she said, suggesting with her tone of utter disinterest that as far as I was concerned, he would never ever be available.

“Just put me through to his voice mail then,” I said.

“He doesn’t use voice mail,” she replied. She said it with distaste and disbelief at my suggestion, as if I’d just urged her to check out the new winter shoe shipment at Payless.

“Then please tell him to call me,” I said. “It involves Devon Barr and is extremely important.” I’d added some haughtiness to my tone, thinking that might catch her interest.

Now it was time for a little background research on Cap and Whitney. An Internet search was hardly going to tell me if either of them had the potential to be a devious murderer, but certain details about their pasts might hint at character, temperament, and needs.

I started with Cap. I couldn’t find a whole lot, but his name turned up in a few places and I found one short profile of him in a trade magazine. He had practiced law for a few years and then worked his way into managing talent. His clients included some actors but mostly models. Devon, as Richard had suggested, seemed to be the biggest star he managed, and her death would certainly be a blow to his income. If he was the one who had murdered her, he would have known he’d be killing the goose that laid the golden egg.

There wasn’t much about his personal life, but I learned that his marriage to Whitney was his second. He’d met her just over four years ago, two years after divorcing, and married her within a year. He had no children from either this marriage or the first.

When it came time to check out Whitney, I started with her own Web site. Scott had introduced her as Whitney Darby, but over the weekend I’d learned that professionally at least she used her maiden name—Lee. The bio on the site described Whitney Lee as a motivational speaker, cookbook author (though the book Elegant Texas Food wasn’t slated to be released until next fall), and a media star, which seemed a stretch considering she hadn’t had a regular job in TV since she left the Dallas/Fort Worth market. Her three-year stint at the television station—where she’d covered food and health and won two local Emmys—was described in the kind of glowing terms you’d reserve for someone like Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters.

Now it was time to dig for info that hadn’t been sugarcoated by Whitney herself. But there wasn’t a ton to be found. Not surprisingly, the station’s Web site had nothing on her anymore, and there were no recent profiles of her. What I did find were pictures. She and Cap apparently relished being seen at major social events, and she liked to dress up, showing off her jewels and, as Richard had suggested, that proud bosom of hers. She’d been shot a fair amount by society photographers like Patrick McMullan.

I found the number for her former TV station on their Web site, and after calling it, asked for the PR department. I told the person who answered that I was a writer doing a profile of Cap Darby and his lovely wife Whitney Lee and just wanted to verify a few facts. It was sort of true. And it wasn’t like I was going around impersonating Johnny Depp’s personal assistant just so I could snare a better table at a restaurant.

The woman who answered drew a complete blank at the mention of Whitney’s name.

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” she explained in a thick Texas accent. “I’ve only been here nine months. Let me connect you to my associate, Skyler McKenzie. She should know. She’s been here six or seven years.”

“Which magazine?” Skyler asked after I’d done my spiel again.

“Gloss,” I lied. It was actually a double lie because not only did I no longer work there but they’d never have done a piece on a hope-to-be-famous-if-my-book-ever-sells type like Whitney.

“Whitney was a reporter here for several years. If you want the exact dates, you’ll have to speak to our HR department instead.”

You never wanted to be banished to HR when you were writing a story. They were the Gobi Desert of information because, fearful of lawsuits, they refused to cough up a freaking thing.

“Oh, I have the dates, so that won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’d just love to include a few highlights of her career, and I thought your office would be best for that. I know she covered mostly food and health. Is that correct?”

I didn’t really give a rat’s ass about the highlights of Whitney’s career, but I wanted to work my way into a conversation about the woman, hoping to score a few juicy details. I heard the rhythmic clicking sound of Skyler’s nails on computer keys as she pulled up info, but I had sensed from her tone that she might have known Whitney personally.

“Yes, that’s right. Food, entertainment. And health stories during her last year.”

“Any examples? It would be great to have a few for my story.”

“Lots of restaurant openings. A segment on which area church served the best flapjacks at their Sunday breakfast. As for health, well, let’s see. There were stories on back pain . . . Botox injections—and a two-parter on allergies.”

She’d listed everything in a fairly deadpan tone, but there was a soupçon of sarcasm when she added the title of the allergy series: The Mite That Roared. I had the feeling Skyler hadn’t been a fan of Whitney’s.

“I know that Whitney won two Emmys. Can you tell me what those were for?”

“Those would be local Emmys, you realize?”

Eww, she really hadn’t liked Whitney, had she?

“Of course. But I’d still like to know what they were for.”

There was a pause as, I assumed, she was scrolling down her computer screen.

“One was for the series on allergies,” she said. “And the other? Umm, okay here it is. She did a two-part series on eating disorders.”

My jaw fell open in total surprise. I couldn’t even find words to respond.

“You know, like anorexia—and bulimia,” she said, as if I might be confused about what she was referring to.

“Yes, sorry. I was just considering what you said. Do you know if that was a topic of special interest to her?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.” I heard papers rustle on her desk—she was growing itchy to end the call.

“Would you be able to send me a link to the eating disorder series?” I asked.

“That’s going to involve some effort,” she said.

“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, but it will help me add a nice splash of color to the story.” Jeez, I was sounding like Martha Stewart.

After sighing audibly, Skyler promised to email me the link when she could.

I tried Cap’s office again, and this time I matched his assistant snip for snip. “I really need to speak with Mr. Darby,” I told her. “Tell him that critical information about Devon’s death has come into my possession.”

That, I thought, ought to inspire a response. And it did. Ten minutes later Cap returned the call.

“If you’re calling to tell me about how Devon died, I already know. I’ve been in touch with the police today.”

“No, it’s something else. Something very important—and very private.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“I’d prefer not to discuss it on the phone. Can you meet me in person?”

“Why so cloak-and-dagger? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I see you.”

“I’m meeting an associate for lunch on West Fifty-fifth Street. I’ll arrive early—at noon—and you can meet me there.” He gave me the name of the restaurant, not bothering with good-bye.

Worried about being late, I ended up at the restaurant ten minutes before Cap was slated to show. It was a small Italian place with mango-colored walls, just below street level. It was the kind of restaurant you saw in old movies about Manhattan. I wondered if he’d picked it for his lunch because he’d be under the radar with his guest compared to places like Michael’s and The Four Seasons.

Rather than sit at one of the tables, I slid onto a stool at the small bar and ordered a sparkling water. There weren’t any diners yet, and waiters moved silently about the room, needlessly adjusting fan-shaped mango-colored napkins and shrugging their shoulders at no one in particular.

Cap arrived just a few minutes later. He slipped off his camel-colored cashmere coat and turned it over to the coat-check girl. After spotting me at the bar, he made his way over.

“A pinot grigio,” he said to the bartender, lifting himself onto the stool next to me. He was wearing a perfectly fitted navy suit and crisp blue shirt, no tie. Though I’d been aware of his confident, powerful aura all weekend, the suit turned it up several notches.

“I appreciate you meeting me on such short notice,” I said. “And by the way, everything’s off the record.”

“I don’t have time for small talk, so please get right to the point,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “I don’t have a super good feeling about this past weekend. I’m wondering if someone who knew about Devon’s eating disorder found a way to push her over the edge.”

“You mean egged her on?” he said sharply. “Encouraged her to be even thinner?”

I cocked my head. “Maybe,” I said. I hadn’t considered that idea, but regardless, I decided not to spell out my own theory in detail; it would give too much away.

“Why would someone do something horrible like that?”

“Because they wanted Devon out of the picture.”

“And something tells me you’ve got a theory about who did the pushing.”

“Actually, I don’t have a specific person in mind. But I do have a specific concern—and it involves you.”

His strong jaw clenched visibly.

“I know your magazine specializes in the preposterous,” he said after a moment, “but you seemed too smart to engage in that sort of thing. I hope to God you’re not implying that I had anything to do with Devon’s death. Besides my personal feelings toward her, she was my most successful client.”

“People often lose sight of one advantage when something more important is at stake.”

“You’ve totally lost me. What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“You were having an affair with Devon, weren’t you?”

He pulled his whole body back in surprise and his full, soft mouth dropped open. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just for show.

“You can’t be serious,” he exclaimed. “What on earth gave you that ridiculous idea?”

“I saw the two of you together—out on the deck on Friday night.”

“So? She was my client. I often had to speak to her privately.”

“It didn’t sound like a business discussion.”

“Were you spying on us?” He took a distracted sip of his wine and shook his head in disgust.

“I headed out to the deck that first night, not knowing you were there, and I heard a few snippets. It sounded as if she was pressuring you to talk to Whitney.”

He scrunched up his face as if trying to recall something.

“You said, ‘I will tell her, but the timing has got to be right,’ ” I said, prodding him.

His eyes shot back toward me.

“I did agree to tell someone something, but it wasn’t Whitney we were talking about. It was Barbara Dern, the head of Devon’s modeling agency. There were a few issues with the agency, and Devon wanted me to approach her about them. I was worried about the timing of doing it immediately before the album came out. I thought it could blow up in her face.”

“Okay, but that’s not the only evidence I have. You were seen kissing Devon in the woods.”

“What? That’s preposterous.” That was the second time Cap had used the word. “Who’s telling you this garbage?” There was nearly smoke coming out of the guy’s ears, and a few waiters were shooting looks in our direction.

“One of the other guests saw you talking to Devon in the woods on Saturday. You leaned down and kissed her. Later I saw her crying nearby, and she told me she was frightened.”

“I admit I talked to Devon privately in the woods that Saturday. I went looking for her to follow up on our conversation from the night before. But I certainly didn’t kiss her. I can’t believe someone is telling you these lies. Are you actually suggesting that I was having an affair with Devon, and when things weren’t going right, I decided to kill her by exacerbating her eating disorder?”

“That’s one possibility. The other is that Whitney did it. She may have discovered the affair. Did you know that when she was a television reporter, she did a story on anorexia? That means she’s familiar with the physical and psychological aspects of an eating disorder.”

“She also did a story on Middle Eastern food, but that doesn’t make her a damn terrorist. You better not be planning to print these total distortions. In my job I know an awful lot about libel and slander, and you’d be stepping on dangerous ground.”

“I’m not planning on reporting any of this at the moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I had tried not to become flustered during the conversation, but it was tough, considering how agitated Cap was. “Like I said earlier, I had some concerns and I wanted to discuss them with you. If Devon was murdered, I want to know about it.”

“Who said I was kissing Devon in the woods? I want the name.”

“I was told in confidence.”

“You ought to know that you’re dealing with a complete and utter liar.”

“Were you privy to the fact that Devon was pregnant last year?”

His eyes registered awareness. But he jerked his head, a little surprised, it appeared, that I was privy to that fact.

“Yes, we knew. In fact, part of what I was doing in the woods was comforting Devon about that. She wanted a baby, and the miscarriage had been hard on her. But Whitney had talked to the doctor recently, and he was certain that there was every chance Devon could conceive again. I told Devon that. And don’t ask me who the father was. That’s private information.”

I didn’t say anything, just met his eyes and didn’t let go.

“Good God, you’re not thinking I’m the father, are you?” he said “If you start making ridiculous accusations in print about me, you’ll regret it.”

“You keep calling everything I saw preposterous, but it’s not hard to imagine you having an affair with Devon. Two attractive, successful people whose lives are entwined . . .”

He turned completely around and looked toward the door, obviously making sure his guest hadn’t arrived yet.

“There’s just one very important detail you’re not privy to,” he said, his voice tight with anger.

“And what would that be?” I asked.

“This is totally off the record?”

“Yes.”

“We couldn’t have been having an affair. I’m not capable of having sex with anyone.”