So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 17

I reread the caption twice, totally shocked. There was no story accompanying the picture, so I Googled Fiona Campbell. I found only one tiny reference to her, in an article published the year before her death. It was about the party and drug scene in London. I wondered if drugs were behind her tragically early death.

I knew what I’d found had to be significant. Doing the math, I realized that Fiona was probably working as a model at the same time Devon’s career was exploding. And someone—yes, it was Jane—had told me that Devon kept a place in London, that she felt at home there. Maybe that’s where she had worked early in her career. And if that was the case, there was a good chance she would have known Fiona.

I smiled to myself as a memory fought its way into my conscious brain. Richard and I, sitting in the great room the morning after Devon’s death. I’d asked for his impressions of Devon that weekend. And he’d made the comment about how models liked to smoke. I’d been surprised, wondering how he would know that. Almost immediately afterward, he’d left the room.

So had the two girls actually known each other? And was that why Richard had maneuvered to be in Devon’s presence on the weekend? Perhaps he’d never had any particular interest in tracking Devon down, but when he’d heard that she was going to be at Scott’s, he decided that it would be a chance to talk to her about his sister, to learn what he could. But I’d never seen Richard interacting with Devon for even a second. He’d just watched her, sometimes out of the corner of his eye.

Quickly another thought charged across my brain. Richard may have had an ulterior motive when he secured the invitation for the weekend. What if Devon and Fiona had been into drugs together, and that’s how Fiona had died? What if Devon had actually encouraged Fiona’s drug use? Richard might have held her responsible and then jumped at the chance to confront her.

And that could be the reason Devon had looked so frightened that day in the woods—Richard may have just ambushed her. After our walk, while I’d idly checked out the buildings on the property, he had headed toward the large barn, but he could have bumped into Devon on the way and initiated a showdown with her. It was, after all, only ten minutes or so after the hike that I had found Devon sobbing. And maybe a verbal bitch-slapping wasn’t all Richard had arranged for the weekend.

I was going to have another little chat with the cagey Richard Parkin. But first I needed to learn more about his sister. For the second time in a couple of days, Cat Jones’s name popped into my mind. Before she’d taken over Gloss magazine, she’d been the editor in chief of a hip downtown magazine called Get, where I’d worked as well, and there was a chance she knew Richard, or at least was friendly with people who did.

I phoned her office, and of course her assistant picked up. Cat hadn’t answered her own phone since the 1990s. I wasn’t surprised when I was handed the “Unfortunately, Cat is in a meeting right now—may I have her call you back?” line, but I was surprised when the assistant suddenly asked me to hold, as if someone had gestured to her. When she released the hold button, she offered an update. “Cat says she will call you back in twenty minutes. What number can she reach you at?”

So I had piqued Ms. Jones’s curiosity. She probably thought I was calling with hot industry gossip, which Cat absolutely thrived on. When it came to herself, she of course favored only flattering chatter and tidbits, especially press items accompanied by fetching photos of her with captions like “Purrrfect Comeback” or “Puss in Boots,” but as for anyone else in the media world, she preferred the mean and salacious, even if it was all mere speculation.

While I waited for Cat to return the call, I phoned a rental agency for a car to drive out to Pine Grove the next day. There was no way I could drive my Jeep. Last weekend all the houseguests at Scott’s would have had the opportunity to see it, and I couldn’t take the chance of being spotted in Pennsylvania.

“Well, well,” Cat said when she called back exactly twenty minutes later. “Are you still on your book tour?”

“No,” I said, snorting. “My publisher doesn’t believe in them. But they set me up on a wonderful blog tour. I’ve stayed at some of the best Web sites.”

“I enjoyed your book party, by the way,” Cat said, disingenuously. “Lots of interesting people there.” She had stayed all of fifteen minutes, two of which were spent air kissing and the rest eyeing the Buzz reporters I’d invited, as if she had come face-to-face with the last leper colony on earth.

“I was glad you could make it,” I said.

“Though I would have liked more of a chance to talk to you. I honestly didn’t think I’d be seeing so little of you when you went to Buzz.”

That was funny. She was making it sound as if I’d bolted. And yet she was the one who’d given me the boot, when she’d decided to jettison the human interest and crime stories in Gloss to make room for pieces like “78 Ways to Apply Body Butter” and “Green Tea: It Does Anything You Could Possibly Think Of.” I’d been pissed at first, but in the end I couldn’t blame her—if she didn’t boost circulation fast, her job and her ever-present herd of town cars would be at risk. I’d figured in time we’d manage to restart our weird kind of friendship, but so far it hadn’t happened.

“I’m sure you’re crazed right now, but maybe we could do a dinner after the holidays,” I said.

“I take it that’s not why you’re calling today, though.”

“No, you’re right,” I said, smiling at her little zinger. Cat was the master of those. “I need a favor—or rather a piece of information. I’m in a bit of a jam, the details of which I won’t bore you with, but I desperately have to get my hands on some facts about Richard Parkin. Do you know—”

“What kind of jam?”

“I promise to tell you when I see you next time, but it would take too long now—and I need to move quickly.”

There was a pause, and I could sense her plum-colored lips forming into a pout and a finger brushing a strand of long blond hair away from her face.

“Well, I never fucked him,” she said after a few seconds. “But I’ve certainly met him. I’ve even sat at the same dinner table with him on several occasions.”

“He had a half sister who died about fourteen years ago. She was a model in the UK. Have you ever heard anything about that?”

“God, no. And that surprises me. It’s not like him to forgo an opportunity to milk some human tragedy.”

I sighed, feeling nearly defeated.

“Can you think of any way for me to dig up this info?” I asked, nearly pleading. “It would help if I could talk to someone who knew him during his Fleet Street days.”

“Well, though I never fucked him, I know someone who did. Claire Trent. She’s a friend of mine in London. She used to write, but she married a rich banker and now sits around all day eating the proverbial bonbons. Would you like her number?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Do you want to get in touch with her first and let her know I’ll be phoning?”

“Not necessary. I’ll put my assistant back on, and she’ll give you the number. Just tell Claire I suggested you call. She’s looking for diversions these days.”

“Thanks, Cat. I’ll talk to you after Christmas.”

“Right,” she said, as if only seeing would be believing.

When I phoned Claire Trent a minute later, a housekeeper answered, her British accent so thick I could barely make out what she was saying. It sounded as if Mrs. Trent was out but would be returning within the hour. I told her I’d prefer not to leave a message because it was a surprise.

After I hung up, I made coffee and paced around my living room. I was tempted to call Richard right then and confront him, but I knew if I did it without all the facts in hand, I might not be able to elicit anything valuable.

As obsessed as I was about the case, Beau kept intruding on my thoughts. I’d thought I might hear from him this morning, and yet so far nothing. Up until last night, he’d been the one on the offensive, badgering me for contact. Now things were flipped. Once Beau had spotted me with Chris, he’d cast me in the role of bad girl. Did this mean that if I didn’t reach out, I’d never, ever hear from him again?

To distract myself, I checked my email. And lo and behold, the lovely Skyler had finally sent me links to several of Whitney’s stories. I watched each of them, which was about as much fun as cleaning out my wallet. Whitney, it turned out, had been no Diane Sawyer. She was gushy on camera and hyper concerned looking, as if she were reporting live each time from Darfur and she couldn’t help but let her emotions get in the way. I soon found the story on anorexia. According to Whitney’s intro, an “explosion” of cases in Fort Worth had many local parents “worried sick.” The piece was light on science, heavy on emo.

One thing became clear as I watched the rest of the stories, Whitney had definitely been trying to branch out of food stories and into the health arena. In addition to the anorexia piece, there were stories on excessive sweating, skin cancer, women conceiving with donor eggs, and the brilliant Emmy Award–winning series the publicist had mentioned, The Mite That Roared. Nothing set off any alarms.

Though an hour wasn’t quite up, I phoned London again. I was still struggling to translate what the housekeeper had just told me when a new voice came on, announcing, “This is Claire.” She was eating as she spoke—perhaps the proverbial bonbons that Cat had mentioned.

I relayed how I’d secured her number and explained the purpose of my call.

“It’s been an absolute eternity since I’ve heard Fiona’s name mentioned,” Claire said. “I would have assumed she was long forgotten.”

“Did you know her personally?”

“I met her just once, at a party with Richard. She was at least a good ten years younger than he was, but he adored her and was very protective of her. She was quite pretty, though hardly what you’d call dazzling. The London fashion shows had started to take off, and I believe she worked regularly in them, but I don’t think she had much luck with photographic work. I suppose that’s where the problems began.”

“What problems?” I asked, feeling my muscles tense.

“She was anorexic. She apparently convinced herself that being even thinner would help secure more jobs.”

“Omigod,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, not knowing, of course, the real reason for my shock. “She died a horrible death. The family had put her in hospital by that point, and she was all hooked up to feeding tubes and the like—but it was too late.”

“I assume Richard was very upset by her death.”

“Oh, yes. He was devastated. We were no longer dating at that point, but we were still friends, and I did my best to comfort him.”

“There’s just one more thing I need to know. Was Fiona friends with Devon Barr? Or do you know of any connection between the two?”

“Ah, Devon Barr. Everyone here is buzzing about her death. And how ironic that she ended up dying the same way Fiona did. Though not so ironic, I guess, when you think of that world. But I digress. Yes, they were friends at one point. But there must have been some kind of falling-out, because I remember that Richard didn’t want Devon at the funeral service—and in the end she didn’t come.”

“Do you have a clue what the falling-out was over?”

“I didn’t at the time—Richard never said anything—but in hindsight I suspect it was a competitive thing. Devon’s career was already on fire. Everyone wanted her for their campaigns. Fiona, like I said, was probably never destined to be a star.”

“I appreciate your help,” I said.

“Tell Cat I send my best. I’d love to see her—though not when I have my husband with me. Cat has that funny habit of yearning for what other women have and then trying to steal it for herself.”

I signed off with my heart thumping. Did Richard blame Devon for his sister’s death? Perhaps, feeling less successful than Devon, Fiona had begun starving herself. I shook my head at how stupid I’d been. Over the past few days, I’d dredged up what I could on everyone except Richard, dismissing him as someone with no real connection to Devon. But he’d known her and possibly resented the hell out of her. Had he also wished her dead?

I wanted some face-to-face time with Richard, and I needed a decent excuse. I thought for a few moments and dialed his number.

“Well, if it isn’t the plucky Bailey Weggins,” he said, sounding relatively sober when he picked up. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Oh, just checking in. It’s been a couple of days since we spoke.”

“Oh, please, Bailey. You’ve never just checked in with anyone,” he proclaimed. “I’m quite certain you’ve spent your entire life with an agenda.”

I laughed, pretending to be amused.

“Okay, you’ve caught me. I do have an agenda. I know you’re having second thoughts about doing a story for Vanity Fair, but I’ve stumbled on information that I thought was worth sharing. It’s relevant to both of us.”

“Do tell.”

“Could we meet? I’d like to talk in person.”

I sensed him glancing at his watch.

“I don’t want to pass up a chance for a chat with the infamous Bailey Weggins, but I’m a bit jammed at the moment. Tell you what. I’m meeting a few pals at Hanratty’s for dinner tonight at seven, but right before then I’m going to try to squeeze in a walk in the park. You’re welcome to join me on my walk if you wish.”

“Sure,” I said. “Where and when?”

“I like to stroll about in the Central Park Conservatory. The entrance is on 105th and Fifth. Why don’t I see you there at six thirty?”

“Got it,” I said. That part of the city was like a million miles away from the Village, but if I took the 4 or 5 on the Lex to Eighty-sixth and then the local to Ninety-sixth, it wouldn’t take forever to get there.

“I’ll be meandering around in there. You should see me when you come down the stairs.”

After I signed off, I finally called the precinct in Brooklyn and reported the incident with the gypsy cab driver. Just talking about the experience made my stomach tighten so hard it hurt. Later, I fixed a late lunch, puttered, and thought miserably of Beau.

Finally it was time to meet up with Richard. I made it to Ninety-sixth Street in thirty minutes, bundled up in a down jacket, scarf, and old cloche hat. After ascending the subway station steps, I hurried west on 96th, my hands stuffed in my pockets as I fought a mean, dry wind that blew west from Central Park toward the East River. The street was crowded with grocery shoppers and people hurrying home from work. I passed three different places on the street selling Christmas trees, makeshift wood structures hung with colored Christmas lights. At one a woman about my age stood waiting as her tree was bound with mesh. Her little boy looked on in pure delight.

After crossing Fifth Avenue, I turned north, walking along the cracked sidewalk that bordered Central Park. The wind was less brutal there because the trees formed a barricade. It was less crowded there, too, though periodically someone entered or exited the park, mostly dog walkers with their pets in stupid little coats. Though I’d heard about the Central Park Conservatory, I’d never been up there and didn’t know what to expect. After passing the statue of some New Yorker long forgotten, I saw a large black gate on my left. A sign indicated that I was standing in front of the conservatory.

It appeared to be a park within a park, though instead of grassy spaces it was all gardens, or what would be gardens come spring again. There were several dog walkers and an elderly couple out for a frigid stroll. I spotted Richard immediately, just as he’d predicted. He had his back to me, but I knew it was him. I’d stared at that shaggy head of hair for two hours on a trek through the woods.

The wind was up again, overriding the sound of my booted footsteps, but Richard turned suddenly, as if I’d just opened the door to a quiet room he was standing in.

“Is this place one of your secret pleasures?” I asked, approaching him.

He was wearing an extra-long gray overcoat with a tattered Burberry scarf that had either come from the first batch the company had ever made or been run over years ago by a lorry on the streets of London. His face was already red from the cold, and his eyes were watering.

“Actually, yes,” he said over the wind. “I come here all the time. You know how we Brits love a good shrub or a cluster of foxgloves.”

“Not many foxgloves at this time of year.”

“No, but after a day at my desk, I find a walk around the grounds gets my blood pumping. But enough about me. You said you had something to talk about.”

“Yes, a few details have emerged as I’ve been researching Devon’s story, and there’s one I’d like to discuss with you. I know you’re not pursuing the story yourself, but—”

“Excuse me for mixing negatives, but I never said for sure that I wasn’t pursuing it,” Richard said. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m still keeping a toe in the water. In fact, I’m thinking of going to the funeral tomorrow.”

That was interesting. What was he up to now? I wondered.

“Okay, fair enough,” I said.

“Aren’t you going too?” he asked, beginning to stroll. I moved along with him.

“I’m not doing a profile of Devon. I’m interested in how she died. Attending her funeral isn’t going to advance my story at all.”

“Oh, come, come, Bailey. Don’t be a tease. You’ve probably got your little roadster all fired up.”

“Since you’re going, why don’t I just call you later for the details?”

“Happy to oblige.”

Casually I glanced around the area just to see how many people were still around. The elderly couple was still strolling, gloved hand in gloved hand, but one of the dog walkers was now beating a retreat, trying to urge a resistant poodle up the steps.

“I thought the funeral was private,” I said. “Just for family and close friends.”

“I won’t be in the church. I’ll be outside, as an observer with all the hoi polloi.”

“Of course. You didn’t really know Devon, did you? You told me you’d never met her before last weekend.”

Even through his long, heavy coat, I could see his body tense.

“That’s right,” he said stiffly. “As I mentioned before, Scott was hoping for an article. I had no idea if I could sell it—or even wanted to—but I was hardly going to pass up a weekend with a man whose wine cellar is as legendary as Scott Cohen’s.”

We rounded the end of a section of the conservatory and moved into the next, this one with small pocket gardens. A man with a bulldog was walking the perimeter. Please don’t leave, I silently pleaded. I was ready to go for broke, and I didn’t want to be alone in the dark with Richard when I did it.

“Really?” I said, letting the disingenuousness seep through. “You see, I thought maybe you had known Devon—from your London days.”

“My London days?” he asked, turning and looking hard at me. He sensed I was up to something—and he didn’t like it.

“I thought you might have crossed paths with Devon in London. She used to live there. I figured she knew your sister.”

He stopped, his body completely rigid now.

“My, my, aren’t you the dogged little researcher,” he said meanly. “I hope they’re paying you the big bucks at Buzz.”

“This isn’t about money,” I said. “I want to know the truth.”

“The truth?” he said. “About what exactly?”

“About Devon’s death. I think she was murdered.”

I let my eyes wander, as if I was processing a thought, but it was really to survey my surroundings. The dog walker was tugging the bulldog, anxious to leave. I would soon be alone in the gardens with Richard Parkin.

“Well, if you’re so damn interested, I’ll share one piece of the truth with you—off the record,” he said fiercely. “My sister is the one who was murdered. And Devon Barr killed her.”