So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 2

“You’ve had a slight wardrobe malfunction, darling,” Christian announced.

Devon seemed to totally ignore him, but then, without a trace of self-consciousness, she slowly teased the fabric back over her breasts with long, slender fingers. I’d seen modeling shots of her almost totally nude before, and I wouldn’t have expected her to feel awkward, but the languidness of her movement suggested something else: that it had all been intentional—for someone’s benefit. Another thought shot through my brain. How thin she was. When Devon was first starting out, she was known for the heroin chic look, but she had filled out as she grew older, to something you could have described simply as “model thin.” Her appearance tonight suggested a worrisome drop in pounds.

“There—better?” she asked blasély to no one in particular. And then, “I’d like some fresh water,” before anyone could weigh in with an answer to the first question.

“Absolutely,” Scott said, reaching inside the fridge for a bottle. “This is Jessie, by the way, and her friend Bailey.”

“Hello,” she said, without much enthusiasm, but she came forward and shook our hands. Her hand was slim and felt as fragile as a seashell. She held my gaze just a moment. For a split second I saw a flash of cunning in her eyes.

“Congratulations on your album,” Jessie said. “It must be a very exciting time for you.”

“Scott’s the one who deserves the congratulations,” she said. “He’s the one who made it all happen.”

“And Cap, of course,” said Scott, a little forced. “He’s the one who brought you to me to begin with.”

“Have you been writing music long?” Jessie asked her.

“I wrote little songs, when I was young. Then I learned how to do it from watching Tommy.”

She looked at him slyly, as if there was a secret between them.

“Scott tells us we’re going to have a preview this weekend,” Tommy said. “I can hardly wait.”

Next to him, Tory formed her wide mouth into a pout, clearly not appreciating the way Tommy was taking in Devon—or maybe she was still pondering how you turned cherries into wine.

“Did you bump into Jane?” Cap asked Devon. “I sent her to look for you.”

Devon shrugged as if she didn’t remember and could care less where Jane had gone. “You know what I’m in the mood for?” she said. “Pool. Who wants to take me on?”

“I’d love a game, actually,” Tommy said. “But you’ll have to play fair and keep your clothes on.”

The two of them walked across a large wooden plankway to the other side of the barn’s upper level, where there was a billiard table and a small bar. Tory hesitated a moment and then followed after them, her strides as wide as an ostrich’s. At the same time, Sandy announced that dinner for Jessie and me was ready. I glanced back at the island and discovered that she had set out two dinner plates heaped with the ragout and separate plates with a simple salad. There was also a basket overflowing with corn muffins.

“You don’t mind eating here, do you?” Scott asked us. “We already spent two hours at the dining table, and I’m afraid if I sat down there again, I’d never get up.”

“Not at all,” Jessie said. “It looks wonderful.”

“Whitney has given it her full blessing,” Scott said.

“Do you like to cook?” Jessie asked.

“I’ve just finished a cookbook, actually,” she said. “Texas food—but not the whole Tex-Mex or barbeque-and-chicken-fried-steak sort of thing. I’m focusing on the kind of elegant Texas food you’re served in the best homes there.”

“Oh, describe a few dishes to me, will you?” Christian demanded. “At First Models we’re never allowed to talk about food during the day.”

“Why not?” I asked, my fork poised.

“There are always models dropping by the agency, and they can’t bear it if you mention food,” he said, slowly sweeping his fingers back and forth along the collar of his shirt. “They’re always hungry. They’d eat the blotter on the desk if you turned your back.”

“I can’t imagine how they resist indulging,” Jessie said. “I’m too weak to say no to anything yummy.”

“They use all these crazy ways to deal with it,” Christian said. He glanced over toward the pool table, obviously making sure Devon was out of hearing range. “There’s this girl we signed lately, and every day she buys one of those little bags of Wise potato chips, empties all the chips in the garbage, and then all day long she just sniffs the inside of the empty bag for a rush. You know how coke addicts have powder on their noses? She has potato-chip crumbs.”

“Well, at least, as we learned tonight, some models appreciate good wine,” Richard added sarcastically.

“But models weren’t always as thin as they are today, were they?” Jessie asked.

“Good God, no,” Christian said. “Just look at shots from the seventies. Christie Brinkley? I kid you not—at the height of her career, she was the size of a water buffalo.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Why the pressure to be so thin these days?”

“Runway,” he declared definitively, as if we would know exactly what he meant.

“I’m not following,” Jessie said.

“Years ago, the supermodels never did fashion shows,” Cap interjected. “There were two totally different types of models then: runway and photographic. The runway girls had to fit into the sample sizes and were supposed to be nothing more than hangers for the clothes. The photographic girls didn’t have to be that small. When they put on a size four for a photo shoot and it didn’t fit, you just slit it up the back and no one was any wiser. But then runway work started to really pay well, and the agencies pushed the photo girls to do it. Suddenly they needed to fit perfectly into the sample sizes, which by the way are even smaller today than they were ten years ago.”

“So come on, Whitney,” Christian said. “Tell us about your favorite dishes.”

As she began to elaborate on a few of the so-called standouts in her upcoming cookbook, I enjoyed the pork ragout and only half listened to the descriptions of things like oyster soufflé and brownies with praline topping. I soon became aware that Richard had angled his body so that he’d boxed me out from the rest of the group and had me more or less to himself.

“So I finally get to meet Bailey Weggins,” he said as the others chatted behind us. “Famous true crime writer.” His eyes, I noticed, were heavily hooded but a nice, deep shade of blue. Whatever benefit they offered his face was unfortunately undercut by his rough, ruddy skin. He was the kind of guy you pegged for fifty but found out later was only thirty-six.

“I’m flattered you know of me,” I said, genuinely.

“And not only as a writer. You figured out who killed the lovely Mona.” He was referring to Mona Hodges, the she-devil editor in chief of Buzz who had been murdered this past summer.

“Am I to surmise that you knew Mona personally?”

“Just one encounter. After she went to Buzz and did the whole scorched-earth thing with the staff, she invited me to lunch at Michael’s—said she wanted me to write for the magazine. I’ve churned out my fair share of celebrity profiles, but as I told her, I don’t do gossip, and I certainly have no interest in issues like, ‘Is It a Bump—or Just Belly Fat?’ kinds of stories.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I’m sure it’s sooo much more intellectually invigorating to profile celebrities for magazines like Vanity Fair and coax out their views on how to bring an end to world hunger or global warming.”

“Touché,” he said, tossing his head back in laughter. “I sounded like a pompous ass just then. What I was actually going to add is that I think what you’re doing with the crime stuff is interesting. What led you to it?”

“I was a newspaper reporter for a few years, covering the police beat, and then moved to Manhattan to work in magazines. I never had any particular interest in celebrity crime, but this part-time gig at Buzz came up and I loved the idea of a regular income. You’re totally freelance, right?”

“Yes, though I did my stint on Fleet Street in my twenties.”

“I’ve read your books and thought they were terrific,” I said. “Especially the one on Hollywood agents.”

“Thank you. So how do you know Scott?”

“I don’t, actually. I’m just a tag-along with Jessie this weekend. You?”

“I’ve known him a little over the years. Then I bumped into him lately and he lured me up here to meet Devon. He’s angling for a Vanity Fair piece when her album hits.”

“You’re hogging Bailey, for God’s sake, Richard,” Scott called over to us, perhaps having overheard his name.

“She demanded I explain the thesis of my last book,” he said. “I had to oblige.”

Sandy cleared our plates and set down a wooden tray with coffee cups and a large cake iced thickly with white frosting. At the same time, the other three guests drifted back to our area.

“You have to have a slice of Sandy’s red velvet cake,” Scott announced to the group. “It’s to die for.”

Sandy pulled a large knife from a drawer and slid it silently into the cake. The four layers inside, separated by the creamy frosting, were as red as garnets. After lifting each piece onto a plate, Sandy passed them around the island. Everyone accepted a slice except Tory and Devon. Tory’s sad, sullen “No, thank you” seemed to emanate from the lips of someone whose kitty had just been crushed by a car. Devon just shook her head as if she couldn’t have cared less.

“You really wouldn’t like a piece, Miss Barr?” Sandy asked her. “You didn’t eat any dinner.”

Devon’s face formed into an expression of pure disdain. “If I wanted one, I’d say so.”

“Thank you, Sandy,” Scott said. “I can finish up here.”

I didn’t blame Scott for dismissing her. There had been something challenging about her comment to Devon. If Sandy was embarrassed about being banished, she didn’t show it. She set the knife in the sink, wiped her hands on a dishrag, and quietly made her way down the stairs.

It took a moment or two to recover from the awkward lull, but then conversation started up again with Whitney describing the origins of red velvet cake. Cap and Devon went off to shoot pool, with Tommy and Tory watching. Christian and Richard—who’d refilled his wine glass twice since I’d been there—dragged out a backgammon board. Scott, Jessie, Whitney, and I continued to hang by the island, where we lobbed questions at our host about how he’d found the property and managed to haul two different barns here. I excused myself at one point to use the powder room on the ground floor, and when I emerged a couple of minutes later, Jessie was waiting in ambush for me.

“So what do you think?” she whispered devilishly.

“Interesting crowd,” I said. “Should we plan on flashing our boobs tomorrow just to keep up?”

“What about Scott? What do you think of him?”

“Older than I’d pictured, but hunky—and very charming.”

“Yeah, I know. Oh, by the way, you know who Tommy is, right?”

“A tattoo aficionado?”

“The lead guitarist for the band Tough Love.”

“Oh, right, I thought the name was familiar, but I’m not much of a heavy metal fan.”

“He’s something else too—Devon’s ex-lover. They broke up about four months ago.”

She was about to elaborate, but Whitney suddenly descended the stairs, announcing she was heading to bed.

“My asthma acts up in cold weather,” she said. “And I need to get plenty of sleep.”

We returned upstairs. Cap, who was now absentmindedly watching the backgammon game, yawned and announced he was going to take a quick walk around the premises and then turn in. Devon was the next to retire, offering only a desultory good-night. Richard staggered off about twenty minutes later, followed by Christian, Tommy, and Tory, and then it was just Jessie, Scott, and I standing at the island. I suddenly realized that I’d better beat it before Jessie strangled me. I made a point of glancing at my watch, yawning, and announcing my need to hit the sack.

“If you’re interested, Sandy’s husband Ralph is leading a couple of hikes tomorrow,” Scott said as I slid off the stool. “There’s one at eight thirty, and if that’s too beastly an hour, there’ll be another in the afternoon.”

“I actually think I’ll do the early one,” I said.

“And if you’re up for a massage at any point, there’s a sign-up sheet by the door on the lower level of the guest barn. I have a local masseuse coming in for the day.”

I wished them good night and scurried out of there. Jessie bit her lip and shot me an amused look, as if she wasn’t sure what was in store, but she was game to see how it unfolded.

Before heading up to my room, I decided to pop outside for a blast of fresh air. Partly it was because I was feeling restless, but I also wanted a good look at the night sky, so far from the ambient light of Manhattan. My father, who died when I was twelve, had been a real naturalist and often took my brothers and me on walks through woods all over Massachusetts, teaching us about things like birds and turtles and where you could find the planets in the sky. Being out in the country always brought him close to mind.

The night seemed even more dazzling now than it had earlier, probably because most of the lights in the barns had been turned off. Once again my eyes were drawn toward the moon. It was still gleaming in the sky, higher than earlier, but now I noticed a filmy ring of ice crystals around it. Though some people assumed it was an old wives’ tale, a ring like that really was a harbinger of rain—or if the weather was as cold as it was tonight, snow. When moisture gathers high in the atmosphere, you can see it reflecting the light of the moon.

Staring at the moon made me suddenly recall Scott’s mention of a telescope on the deck. Wrapping my arms around myself for warmth, I made my way toward the rear of the barn. The coyotes were obviously sated; the only night sounds now were the snap of frozen twigs under my footfall.

But then there was another sound, a woman speaking—and it was coming from where the deck must be. Curious, I tried to step gently so I wouldn’t be heard. As I neared the end of the barn wall, I spotted the edge of the deck. Cautiously I leaned forward and peered around the corner of the barn. Devon was standing there in her pea coat, talking to Cap. Though they weren’t that near me, their voices carried clearly in the crisp night air.

“Devon, please,” Cap said.

“You have to tell her,” Devon declared petulantly. “You said you would, but you haven’t.”

I jerked back my upper body and, after quietly taking two steps in reverse, stopped in my tracks. It wasn’t polite to eavesdrop, but as a reporter, my good-girl instincts had long since left the building.

“I will tell her,” Cap said. “I promise. You know I always take care of things, and I will this time too.”

“When?” Devon demanded.

“Very soon. But you know as well as I do that we need to handle this carefully, or it could all blow up.”

Devon digested his comment, then spit out the word “Fine,” in a tone that implied that she expected results.

Were Devon and Cap having an affair? Wow, that could add some spice to this crazy little house party. I heard a scraping of shoes on the deck, as if they were about to move. I quickly retraced my steps around the big barn and made my way over to the smaller one.

Back in my room, I felt a sudden urge to call Beau. I wondered if he had decided to come back Saturday after all. But it was close to ten in Sedona, and if he was leaving tomorrow, he may have gone to bed by now. I would have to wait until tomorrow to talk to him. I sent a text that he’d find in the morning. Just a quick hello.

I pulled on my flannel jammies, slipped into bed, and pondered again what I’d just witnessed on the deck. The conversation had suggested something secretive and intimate. It didn’t sync with the picture presented by Cap and Whitney earlier in the evening. They’d acted like the devoted couple—they’d even snuggled up to each other a couple of times, her arm snaked around his waist.

And if Devon was having an affair with Cap, how did that explain the sexual tension between her and Tommy? You could almost feel the heat when those two were within five feet of each other—and clearly Tory wasn’t amused. Maybe Devon was flirting with her ex to make Cap jealous.

Wouldn’t it be wild, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, if things came to a head this weekend?

I awoke the next morning just before eight. I checked my BlackBerry but there was no message yet from Beau. After dressing in a thick sweater, jeans, and hiking boots, I headed over to the big barn. Based on the bacon-y breakfast smells that greeted me when I stepped into the foyer, I expected to discover a handful of people upstairs, but it was only Richard, hunched over his iPad at the island, reading the Times from what I could see, and Sandy stirring something on the stove. She was wearing a huge tartan shirt that made her look as if she should be draped over the back of a car at a tailgate picnic.

Sandy offered the same perfunctory smile she’d flashed last night, the kind with just the mouth, not the eyes. Richard glanced up from his iPad. He looked bleary eyed, like someone in need of the hair of the dog that bit him rather than the gooey pile of French toast and syrup on his plate.

“Morning,” I said. “Everyone else still snoozing?”

“Apparently,” Richard said. “You slept well, I trust?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Yes—though I was roused several times by the pitter-patter of not so little feet outside my door.”

Interesting. I wondered who it might have been.

“So I see there’s WiFi here,” I said to Richard.

“Yes, fortunately. I know we’re only a few hours from the city, but it feels as if we’re in the middle of Patagonia.” He glanced over toward Sandy. “Is there even a town near here?” he asked her.

Before she could answer, we heard the sound of panting as someone mounted the stairs. It was a large woman with a mass of long, black, curly hair and stuffed into a pair of very tight jeans. She was in her mid- to late twenties. I realized it was Jane, the same woman I’d seen in the passageway last night.

“I hope you have green tea,” she announced in a surly tone to Sandy. “That’s what she wants.”

“You know they do have certain customs up here in the north country, Jane,” Richard said, his voice thick with mock charm. “One is that you greet people whenever you first step into a room.”

“Good morning,” she said, grumpily. I introduced myself, and she accepted my hand without enthusiasm.

“Now please tell me you have green tea,” she said, turning back to Sandy. “Or both of us are going to be fucked.”

By this point, Sandy had reached into the cupboard and taken down a small basket stuffed with individual bags of herbal teas. She set it on the island.

“I believe you’ll find some in here,” she told Jane evenly. Next she took out a white pot, a cup and saucer, and a small wooden tray to set them on.

“You don’t have it loose?” Jane complained as she poked through the packet with her chubby fingers.

“I’m afraid not,” Sandy responded, though she sounded almost pleased with the news. Jane let out a huge, annoyed sigh.

“Does your boss enjoy British customs?” Richard asked. “I don’t know many Americans who prefer loose tea.”

“I don’t know why anyone would want tea to begin with,” Jane said. “My grandmother drinks tea. And she’s like a hundred.”

We were spared more of her sour attitude by the arrival of a man I hadn’t seen yet, zipped up to his leathery chin in a red parka that was limp and stained with age. Sandy nodded to him and told the rest of us that this was her husband Ralph. He looked close to sixty, about ten years older than she.

“Any takers for the first walk today?” he asked hoarsely, like someone fighting a cold.

“I’d love to go,” I said.

“Count me in, too,” Richard said. That was a surprise. Based on how wasted he looked, I wondered if there might be a need later to have him medevaced out of the woods.

“I’ll meet you by the front door of the barn in ten minutes,” Ralph said. “Just be sure to dress warm.”

While I chugged the last of my coffee, Jane waited impatiently for Sandy to finish setting up the tea tray. Before lugging it away, she ripped open several tea bags and shook the loose leaves into the teapot.

“Don’t say anything,” she told us—as if we’d actually take pleasure in squealing to Devon that she was the victim of a major tea-leaf hoax.

“Would she like a muffin?” Sandy asked.

“Sure,” Jane said snarkily. “If you can slice off one tiny crumb and feed it to her with tweezers.”

Something was definitely going on with Devon’s eating. I wondered if she might be suffering from anorexia and decided to pay close attention later at lunch. But for now, I needed to grab my coat. After retrieving it from my room, I knocked on Jessie’s door just to see if she was up for the hike. There was no reply. I suspected she might have bunked down with Scott. I hurried downstairs, taking a few extra seconds to sign up for a late-morning massage on the clipboard by the door.

Ralph was waiting outside for us, a dusty old pair of binoculars dangling from his neck. Without chitchat, he led us single file along a trail that wasn’t difficult but kicked up my pulse rate a little. Richard did his best to disguise the fact that he was huffing and puffing at times.

We stopped at just a few spots, once for Ralph to point out an owl pellet lying on the ground, the regurgitated indigestible bits and bones from the bird’s last meal. A few minutes later he showed us a fox den just off the trail. A tuft of gray fur had been snagged by a branch just in front of the mouth of the den.

“Looks like Jane paid him a visit last night,” Richard whispered in my ear.

“Stop,” I said, pretending to elbow him.

We continued walking, and after a few minutes, we fell behind Ralph a bit on the trail. He was clearly giving us some breathing room.

“How are you enjoying our little house party so far?” I asked Richard.

“I’m having a marvelous time,” he said sarcastically. “Though I must admit it’s difficult keeping up intellectually. I’m guessing tonight we’ll tackle Francis Fukuyama’s latest thoughts on the consequences of the biotechnological revolution.”

I laughed.

“It sounds like we’ll be treated to a preview of Devon’s album,” I said. “Do you think she has a shot at making it as a singer?”

“Well, the same plan worked for Carla Bruni. And then some. It depends on how good her voice is and how well she’s managed.”

“Cap seems to be doing a good job guiding her so far.”

“Yes, but he might be in a little over his head in this instance. Up until now his biggest achievements had been helping models snag parts in movies like Scream IV or become the spokesperson for something like the magic flab blaster. Music is a whole different arena.”

“Do you think she might drop him?”

“A wonderfully sane, loyal, clear-thinking girl like Devon?” he said sarcastically. “Oh, I doubt it.”

There was a sudden honking sound above us, and in unison we glanced up to see a V formation of what looked like thirty geese slicing their way across the sky. After they’d vanished, I continued to stare upward. Clouds had muscled in during our hike, and the sky had a bruised, swollen look—the kind that at this time of year promised snow.

“Have you heard a weather forecast for the weekend?” I called up the trail to Ralph.

“Snow,” he said. “Maybe six inches.”

“Oh gosh, I hadn’t heard that. Will that create any problems for us getting out of here?”

“It shouldn’t. We’ve got our own plow here.”

“Oh, come on, Bailey,” Richard said. “Wouldn’t it be fun to be snowbound together? Maybe Devon will throw her cell phone at Jane’s head for not providing loose tea leaves and we’ll have to make a citizen’s arrest.”

A few minutes later I could tell from the position of the sun that we had begun to circle back. At around ten thirty, we emerged from the woods just a little farther south than where we’d entered.

“That was wonderful, Ralph, thank you,” I said. He accepted my thanks while coughing into an old bandana.

While Richard headed off, claiming to be in need of sustenance, I moseyed around, checking out the rest of the buildings on the property. In addition to the two large barns, there were three smaller structures, all made of barn wood. One was more of a cottage, a residence it appeared, and I assumed it was where Sandy and Ralph lived; another seemed to be mainly for storage, and the last served as a large garage. There were curtains in the windows on the second level, suggesting more living space.

I wondered if people were still sleeping because there wasn’t a soul in sight. But just as I passed the garage, I was startled by the sound of someone clearly crying. I followed the sobs to behind the building. Several feet into the woods, by a giant pine tree, stood Devon in her jeans, black knee-high boots, and pea coat, smoking a cigarette and twisting her body back and forth.

“Are you all right?” I called to her.

“No, I’m not freaking all right,” she said with equal parts anger and fear.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. I wonder if she’s broken a heel, I joked to myself.

“I’m not safe,” she said, catching me by surprise. “I need to get the hell out of here.”