So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 19

It was after one before I finally fell into bed. After the call with Jessie, I helped myself to another beer, hoping it would take the edge off, but as I sat on the couch drinking it, with the winter wind rattling the glass door to my terrace, I started to feel even more alarmed. It seemed as if someone must have paid the gypsy cab driver to scare the bejesus out of me, possibly even hurt me. I’d thought he’d been waiting outside the bar for potential customers, but he’d been waiting specifically for me.

Had Tommy set the whole thing up? I wondered. He was the only one who knew I was headed to the Living Room that night. Unless someone had followed me from my apartment.

Tomorrow I was going to have to share this new development with Collinson. Maybe it would help him see that there really was someone out there who was terrified of the truth coming to light. And I knew that I would have to be extremely careful tomorrow. I couldn’t let my guard down out in Pine Grove.

I thought that going to bed on the late side would help me avoid insomnia, but no sooner had I crawled under my comforter than it came roaring into the bedroom like the Terminator, intent on its mission. I tossed and turned for a few hours. It wasn’t just the trip to Pine Grove that was weighing on me. I couldn’t stop replaying the words I now knew the cabdriver had hurled at me. Stop being a busybody. And when that wasn’t sounding in my head, I was playing the tape of what Beau had said. Gee, I thought, my life kind of sucks at the moment, doesn’t it? Finally, when the digits on the bedside clock had flipped past 3:30, I felt myself drifting off.

My alarm beeped obnoxiously at 6:00 a.m., and I awoke feeling groggy and achy. Since my disguise called for looking as grungy as possible, there seemed to be no major reason for a shower, shampoo, and blow out, so I splashed cold water on my face and slipped into my outfit. I filled an old thermos with steaming hot coffee and packed a small cooler with a sandwich and fruit. Chances were that I’d be stuck in the car for hours, and I didn’t want to traipse around town looking for lunch.

The rental car turned out to be a Toyota Corolla. Not as sturdy as my Jeep, but the weather forecast called for clear skies, so at least I wouldn’t be fighting a blizzard in it. And it came with GPS.

After pulling the car out of the garage of the car rental place, I double-parked on the street just long enough to organize all the gear I’d lugged with me. I placed the cooler and thermos in the front seat next to me, along with my binoculars. While I had the chance, I checked my BlackBerry for messages. I wasn’t expecting anything this early, but a tiny part of me was hoping there might be a message from Beau, wishing me luck today.

There was nothing from him, but there was a text message from a number not in my system. And my heart jerked as I read it.

I have info about Devon Barr you must know. Meet me outside of Pine Grove today. 4:00. In front of gray barn on rte. 22. Just before turn onto Sunday Rd.

It had been sent at 4:46 a.m.

Crap, I thought. Who was it from? I’d told no one other than Beau and Jessie that I was definitely planning to drive to Pine Grove, but all the houseguests knew there was a possibility I’d be there to check out the funeral. Most of them, in fact, still thought I was covering Devon Barr’s death for Buzz. And because I had phoned each of them at some point, they all had my cell phone number. The big question, though, was whether the message sender was someone who really wanted to help me solve the murder—or the killer, wanting another crack at me, since the one with the gypsy cab had failed.

“Let’s meet in town,” I texted back. “It’ll be easier.” And safer for me. I waited a couple of minutes, but there was no return message. It was time to move. I tossed the BlackBerry on the seat next to me and fired up the engine.

As I maneuvered my way out of Manhattan, with the sun rising behind me, I tried to put the message out of my mind for now and concentrate on driving. The traffic was relatively light, but still steady. Headed west on Route 78, I passed mile after mile of dense New Jersey sprawl, and then suddenly, almost magically, there were hills and fields and farms with silos that glistened in the morning sun. A Fox News van zipped past me suddenly, and though I still had two more hours of driving ahead, I wondered if they were headed to the same place I was. I was glad Jessie had given me the heads-up about Thornwell being at the funeral today. I’d be able to keep a look out for him. And knowing Thornwell, he’d have his eye out for me, watchful for wigs, weird hats, and sunglasses, and doing a double take at anyone who looked vaguely like me.

I planned to keep my distance, hanging back at the outer fringes of the crowd. Besides, observing the funeral doings wasn’t the main reason I’d signed on for a road trip today. What I really needed to do was stake out Devon’s mother’s house and see who she was tight with. If someone were in cahoots with her, trying to cripple my career, there was a chance that person would be paying her a visit in private.

I stopped once for a bathroom break and to check my BlackBerry. Another text was waiting. And I didn’t like it.

No. The wrong person might see us. I have vital information.

Nothing about the language gave even a hint about who had written it. It was clear that if I wanted to learn who the sender was and whether he really wanted to help me, I was going to have to stop by the barn on Route 22. I decided not to respond, though. Better to keep the sender a little bit on his toes.

At around ten thirty, two and a half hours after my departure, I exited Route 78, and after short stretches on a couple of two-lane highways, I pulled in to Pine Grove. The town was one of those blink-and-you-miss-it models—with a general store and two churches, one with a few TV vans already parked outside. I drove through the center without stopping, but slow enough to check out the scene. I spotted a bunch of paparazzi, zipped into tired-looking parkas and puffing on cigarettes. Let the games begin, I thought.

I found a parking spot along the curb about two blocks away from the church, and killed the motor. I needed a minute to think. Though I’d planned initially to go straight to Devon’s mother’s house, I had changed my mind. I needed to check out the barn first and make sure I wouldn’t be led into a trap later. I also wanted to see if there was another text.

To my dismay, I discovered that my BlackBerry wasn’t picking up a signal. I was in a dead zone. I cursed, thinking of the problem this now posed. If I came across info today that I needed to pursue further—and quickly—there’d be no freaking way to get hold of anyone. It also meant I couldn’t give anyone a heads-up about my rendezvous at four.

After programming the GPS, I headed toward the mystery barn—and found it easily, right where the message sender had said it would be. Route 22 was a quiet rural road not far from town, and the weathered, slightly dilapidated gray barn sat just off the shoulder on the edge of what appeared to be a cow field—though there wasn’t a cow in sight. I parked the car right in front and looked around. On the opposite side of the road, set far back and on a rise, was a 1970s-style split-level. Surely the barn couldn’t be part of that property. Straining my body around, I glanced out the rear window. A half mile back along the road was an old farm, and I guessed that the barn belonged to the farmer—maybe it was an extra place for storing equipment.

I didn’t like how deserted the road was. And I didn’t like that I’d be meeting someone all alone out here. I decided that the best strategy would be to arrive at least thirty minutes early. That way I’d see the person drive up and could make a decision on how to proceed, based on who was in the car.

And that person, I guessed—whether he or she was someone I knew from the infamous house party weekend or maybe even an acquaintance of Sherrie’s reaching out to me—was probably planning to attend the funeral. The timing suggested as much. The four o’clock appointment left plenty of time for the person to go to the service and then head out here.

Now it was time to check out Sherrie Barr’s happy little home back in Pine Grove. Once again I programmed the GPS. The street turned out to be on the outskirts of town, like an afterthought. Sherrie’s place was a shabby white house, with a sunken porch and bald yard. If Devon had been helping her mother out financially, sending money home after each major ad campaign, there sure was no sign of it. Perhaps Devon had refused to turn over money until Sherrie sobered up, because otherwise she’d only burn through it in drunken stupors. Or maybe Devon had just hated to share. That sounded more like it.

I parked several houses away on the opposite side of the street, close enough to observe the goings-on, but not so near that I would attract attention. There were cars parked all along the front of Sherrie’s house, but I had no way of knowing which belonged to neighbors and which to mourners. Then my eye found a vehicle that looked familiar—a black Beemer. Cap and Whitney had driven a black BMW to Scott’s, though I didn’t remember the license plate and couldn’t be sure this was theirs.

Only time was going to tell. I opened the thermos and poured coffee, and then helped myself to an apple. I’d once joined a police stakeout when I was on the crime beat in Albany, and I knew how mind-numbingly boring it could be. But at least I had an end point today. The service started at two, and everyone would have to be at the church—or at the funeral home if that’s where they were meeting—by at least one thirty.

In the end it didn’t take long for me to see a little action. A black town car suddenly began nosing its way down the street in my direction, the gray-haired driver craning his neck as he looked for house numbers. He pulled up right in front of Sherrie’s. I thought it might be a car from the funeral home, but a minute later Christian stepped out of the house and hurried down the saggy stairs toward the car, holding his black leather coat closed with one hand. The expression of disgust on his face suggested he was contemplating getting deloused as soon as he returned to Manhattan. I slunk down slightly in my seat, but he was situating himself in the backseat of the town car and never glanced in my direction. It made sense that he would have stopped by to offer his condolences. But what else had been discussed? I wondered.

Ten minutes later Cap emerged from the house, looking dapper as usual in his camel topcoat. I slunk back down again and raised the binos to my eyes. He looked distracted. Just like Christian, he had a legitimate reason to be visiting Sherrie, but was there a second agenda? He surveyed the street and then unlocked his car door. While he had his back to me, I slid all the way down in the seat, not wanting him to catch even a glimpse of a person in the car. As I heard his BMW cruise by, I wondered where Whitney was. I couldn’t imagine her not attending the service with Cap. Maybe she was coming separately—or she might even be inside with Sherrie.

The next two hours dragged. It was like sitting in an airport after they’ve announced your plane needs a new part before it can take off. At around twelve thirty there was a flurry of activity. A couple of local types arrived, carrying platters covered with aluminum foil, probably the standard death-in-the-family cold cuts and tuna casserole. They reemerged from the house ten minutes later.

I ate my sandwich but avoided more coffee, knowing I’d only have to pee. There were no more comings and goings. I glanced at my watch. One twenty. Probably the only action I was going to see now was Sherrie coming out for the funeral, and sure enough, a minute later another black town car pulled up, this one so shiny it had to be from the funeral home. The driver, neatly dressed, rapped on the door and was ushered inside.

But then another car moseyed down the street and came to an abrupt stop, a dusty white VW Passat that seemed incongruous among the pickup trucks and old Fords on the block. And goodness gracious, guess who slowly hauled himself out of it? None other than Richard Parkin. Was he coming to tell Sherrie just what a piece of shit her daughter was? Or explain that he’d let bygones be bygones? Or to pay Sherrie off for lying about me?

I let a story play out in my mind. Richard had killed Devon, convinced that her death would be blamed on her own self-destructiveness. But then I started poking around, raising other theories. He quickly hatched a plot to undermine me. And who better than another journalist to realize how disastrous Sherrie’s call to my boss would be to my career? But how could he have formed an association with Sherrie? Maybe he had decided he could stomach it long enough to obtain what he needed.

I started to breathe harder, churned up by this latest development. If Richard were guilty, how in the world would I possibly prove it? Despite his propensity for booze, he was clever and wily, someone it would be tough to outsmart. Maybe Detective Collinson would at least be interested in hearing Richard’s history with Devon.

Richard was in the house just a few minutes—long enough, though, to hand over cash. The solemn expression on his face when he exited revealed absolutely nothing. By the time he drove off, I’d made sure I’d slunk down all the way in my seat again.

At 1:40 Sherrie Barr finally emerged, following the limo driver and propped up by two women. She was fifty-five, tops, and her physical form bore a striking resemblance to Devon’s, but even in my binoculars I could see that she was haggard looking, blotchy, and unsteady. I wondered how much of that was due to grief and how much to booze.

I waited for the limo to pull out before I started my car and followed at a distance behind it. I parked in the same spot I’d found before, two blocks away from the church, and made my way on foot to the outskirts of the crowd that had gathered. There were about two hundred people outside—local residents who’d come to rubberneck, and at least seventy-five press, a combo of photographers, print people, and TV crews, most of whom were doing a shuffle with their feet to stay warm. Usually with a crowd of onlookers and press this size, the noise level can get pretty high, but there was a funeral pall cast over this one. The only sound was the murmur of whispers and the hum from the TV vans. Scanning the crowd, I failed to spot Thornwell, but I did see, the Buzz staffer, Stacy, whom Jess had mentioned. I was pretty sure that in my getup, I wasn’t going to nab her attention.

I was just in time to see Sherrie stagger into church, and then the doors were closed behind her. It was clear that I’d missed all the arrivals—and the casket—while I was on my stakeout. I’d have to wait until the end to see who had showed. I held my position on the fringe of the crowd. Temperature-wise, it was only in the midthirties, and the wind had started to kick up, whipping around everyone’s hair. Even though I’d worn hiking boots and several pairs of socks, it wasn’t long before I was doing the foot shuffle myself.

The service lasted only about thirty minutes, and as soon as the doors were flung open, the crowd sounds swelled. Cameras began to click and TV commentators droned into their mikes. As you’d expect, Sherrie was one of the first to exit, along with her prop-her-uppers, followed by a cluster of people who were obviously friends and relatives. Scott emerged next, along with Christian, Cap, and Whitney, clutching Cap’s arm. So she was in town after all. She’d opted for a black mink for the occasion and her blond hair was brushed back, held in place by what seemed to be a matching mink headband.

And then, to a crescendo of murmurs from the crowd, came Tommy and Tory, holding hands. It looked as if Tory hadn’t let the fact that she thought Tommy was a loser and an asshole get in the way of some red-carpet-style shots that would be seen around the world. He was in tight black jeans and a black suit jacket, no overcoat. His ego clearly generated enough heat to keep his body warm in near-freezing conditions. Tory was wearing skinny, skinny black pants with some sort of tabs on the calves, black stilettos, and a black coat that seemed to be made of a techno fabric. While she descended the stairs, she flipped the hood up, revealing the thick black fur that lined the coat. Tommy might not care about the weather, but Tory was going for a downtown–meets–Doctor Zhivago effect.

Jane was one of the last to appear, followed by a spurt of people who looked like area residents.

No Richard, interestingly. And no casket either, I suddenly realized. That actually should have been the first thing out the door. Just as I was contemplating what was going on, I overheard a TV sound guy explain to someone that there was going to be no burial. It seemed as if Devon was going to be cremated. Maybe her ashes were going to be dropped from a plane over Seventh Avenue.

And then all of a sudden, I was staring right at Thornwell. He’d been tucked away in a throng of reporters but was visible now as the crowd had begun to disperse. I could have sworn he stared right at me. Had I been tagged? I wondered anxiously. But then he jerked his head to the left to say something casually to the man next to him and didn’t glance back in my direction. I exhaled in relief. Thornwell had definitely looked right at me, but clearly hadn’t realized who it was in the baseball cap, sunglasses, and butt-ugly parka.

Since there’d be no mad dash to the cemetery, I headed back to Sherrie’s. There were more cars lined along the street now, probably visitors at her house, and I ended up parking farther away than last time. But it didn’t matter. In the next half hour, no one of note came in or out of the house. There was no Passat in sight and no Beemer.

At three twenty I took off. I had promised myself I’d arrive at the barn a half hour early as a precaution. One thing I knew for sure. If a Passat pulled up, I was going to beat a hasty retreat. The fact that Richard had not attended the funeral indicated he’d come to Pine Grove not to mourn Devon but to discuss something with Sherrie. And if he were the person behind Devon’s death and Sherrie’s incrimination of me, I certainly didn’t want to be chatting with him at dusk on a deserted country road.

I found the barn again easily. Parking my car along the side of the road was going to be a hazard to anyone driving by this late; I realized that my only alternative was to pull into the short drive that led up to the double doors of the barn. I backed in so that it would be easy for me to peel out if necessary.

I stepped out of the car and surveyed the area. There was an outdoor security light shining already from the house on the rise, but no lights on yet at the farmhouse down the road. The sun hung low in the sky, shining dispiritedly. I glanced down at the ground. It was frozen hard, but there was one small area where I could make out the edge of a tire print. Had the person who’d texted me parked here earlier, checking out the location?

Back in the car, I took two unenthusiastic bites of the sandwich I hadn’t finished earlier and tried to stay calm. I had to hope that the person coming really wanted to help me. Regardless of who drove up, I wasn’t going to emerge from my car. I’d insist that we talk from our windows, and I’d keep the motor running. I just couldn’t let my guard down for a second when he—or she—arrived.

At ten to four, a car headed down the road from the south, the direction I’d come from, and my heart skipped. But the driver kept on without even glancing my way. The next ten minutes passed torturously slow. And then ten more minutes went by. And ten more. Someone, it seemed, had decided to play a nasty little game with me.

I stepped out of the car again and scanned my surroundings. There was absolutely no one in sight. Maybe the person I was supposed to rendezvous with had sent an updated message to me, not realizing that I had no service here.

I glanced back at the barn and noticed for the first time that one of the double doors was slightly ajar. The wooden bolt that was used to fasten it closed had been slipped over into its sling. I leaned into the car, grabbed the flashlight I’d brought with me, and walked up to the barn. After glancing instinctively behind me, I grabbed the wooden bolt. As I slowly pulled the door open, it let out a long, sad creak. The last rays of daylight reached a foot or two into the barn, but most of the interior was pitch-black. I swept the beam of the flashlight over the insides. Stacks and stacks of hay filled the back half of the barn. And that was it.

Was I meant to find a message in here? I stepped a couple of feet inside and trained my light over every surface. Nothing. Pulling my BlackBerry from my jacket pocket, I reread the message. It had clearly stated that the person would meet me here. It was time to get the hell out of Pine Grove.

And then I thought I heard something. Toward the back of the barn. I froze for a second. No, now the sound was coming from along the side of the barn, outside. I spun around, a wave of fear crashing over me. As I faced the door, I saw it slam shut with a wallop.

“Hey,” I yelled. Except for the light from my flashlight, I was in total darkness. “Who’s there?”

There was no reply. Just the sound of the wooden bolt being slid into place.