So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 4

“But—what were you doing in her bedroom?” I stammered. I had no clue what was going on.

“Sh-she called extension seven and asked me to bring her some water. She said she didn’t feel well and couldn’t get it herself.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, hurrying toward her. “What’s your name?”

“Laura. Laura Ash.”

“Okay, Laura, calm down. Let me see what’s going on.”

There was a lamp burning on a bedside table, and when I stepped into the room I saw that Devon was lying on her back in bed, the duvet kicked to the floor. The top sheet was pulled up just to her waist, revealing her naked torso and small, delicate breasts. I moved closer, and when I saw her eyes, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Her eyes were wide open, totally blank, and slightly faded.

“Devon,” I called. “Devon, talk to me.”

Instinctively I grabbed Devon’s shoulder to shake her, and when I touched her skin I found that it was a little bit cool, like a piece of porcelain. Frantically I fumbled for her wrist and took her pulse. Nothing. I felt a tremble through my whole body. Devon Barr was dead.

I spun around toward the door, where Laura was standing, peering into the room and looking helpless. “I’m confused,” I told her. “When did Devon call you?”

“Why?”

“Just tell me, Laura.” Based on the temperature of the body, it was impossible that Devon had just made a phone call.

Laura lowered her eyes, like a dog in trouble.

“About an hour and a half ago,” she muttered.

“What? You mean at like one fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“In one of the bedrooms above the garage. After she asked me to bring the water, I planned to, really, but I was already in bed and before I could get up, I—I fell back asleep.”

“So you woke up about an hour and a half later and decided to just traipse up here?”

“No. Uh, she called again.”

“You mean just before you came up here? That’s impossible.”

“Well, I thought it was her,” she said, her voice quivering now. “The phone rang. By the time I answered, there was no one there. I just assumed it was her calling to see where I was, and I hurried up here. I didn’t realize how much time had passed.”

“Okay, I need you to go wake Scott. Tell him he has to come over here right away.” By the look on her face, you would have thought I had told her that a spaceship full of Martians had just landed and we needed to start tearing ass through the woods. “Laura—” She was starting to work my last nerve.

“But I think he’s with that girl. Your friend.”

“That’s okay. Just knock hard and tell him it’s an emergency and he has to come to Devon’s room.”

“What should I tell Scott? That she passed out?”

“No, she’s dead.”

“Dead? Omigod.”

“You’ve got to wake Scott, Laura. Just please hurry up, okay?”

I could have gone myself to fetch Scott, but I didn’t want to leave Laura in charge of the scene—and to be honest, I wanted a chance to look around.

After Laura stumbled off, I glanced back down at Devon’s body. Within hours the luminescent skin would turn waxy, her limbs would stiffen, and the face that had made a fortune would begin to sag. She had seemed like a bitch on wheels, totally self-absorbed, but I couldn’t help but feel rocked and saddened by her death. She was so young, so beautiful—and, as it turned out, so talented, too.

How had she died, I wondered? The first word that flashed in my mind for some reason was overdose—maybe because she’d had a rocker boyfriend. I glanced toward the bedside table to the right of the bed. Besides the phone, there was an empty water bottle, an iPod, an iPhone, a tin of lip balm, a crushed pack of cigarettes, and a saucer piled with butts.

But just because there was no sign of drugs didn’t mean she hadn’t taken something or even shot it up, and she’d been wobbly when she’d left dinner. But suddenly a memory rushed my mind: Devon in the woods this morning, crying and saying she wasn’t safe. I ran my eyes over her body. There were no visible bruises on her neck or torso—and no blood on the sheets.

What I did see as I stared at her naked torso was how thin she really was. Beneath her breasts, the outline of almost every rib was apparent. Several models had suffered heart attacks in recent years as a result of anorexia. Was that how Devon Barr had died? I wondered. Certainly being intoxicated tonight would have only complicated matters.

Until an autopsy was conducted, the police would treat her death as suspicious. Both a police crime scene unit and the local coroner would be brought in to check out the room. I had no right to snoop around, and I certainly wasn’t going to do anything to muck up the scene, but there was no harm in letting my eyes continue to wander.

The bedroom was similar to mine—spacious, with a small separate sitting area at the far end—though decorated differently, in blues and greens. There were wads of clothes scattered on not only the chair and loveseat but also the floor.

As my eyes scanned the room, they finally reached the darkened doorway to the bathroom. I took a few careful steps in that direction. When I reached the door, I tugged the sleeve of my pajamas down over my hand and, after a couple of moments of fumbling, flipped on the light switch. If Devon had been doing drugs, there might be evidence in here.

The bathroom was a mess. There were black suede boots lying limply on the floor along with the cream-colored blouse she’d worn at dinner and two damp bath towels. Cosmetics littered the counter surrounding the sink, as if she’d simply upended her makeup bag. Mixed among them were used Q-tips and cotton balls, a tube of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream Skin Protectant, and different lotions and creams—plus another empty water bottle. Without moving my feet, I leaned forward and squinted at the bottles and tubes. No sign of drugs. But something else of interest. Standing among them was a small brown bottle of syrup of ipecac. I hadn’t seen that stuff in years.

Syrup of ipecac, I knew, induced vomiting, something I learned when I was reporting an accidental poisoning story for the Albany Times Union. Parents were once encouraged to store it in their medicine cabinet in case their kid decided to chow down on some toxic household cleanser or a bottle of aspirin, but that strategy was no longer recommended by doctors. The problem was that vomiting could sometimes make a poisoning situation even worse. For instance, when you throw up lye, it just scorches your throat all over again.

But why would Devon be toting it around? I wondered. Searching my mind, I seemed to remember reading once that bulimics used ipecac to support their efforts. So perhaps Devon had suffered from bulimia, not anorexia.

Suddenly I picked up the sounds of people barreling down the corridor. I quickly flicked the bathroom light off and stepped back into the bedroom. Two seconds later Scott bolted through the door with Laura in tow.

“She’s dead?” he blurted out. “What happened?” His jeans, which he had clearly thrown on in a hurry, were still unzipped and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his naked chest, covered lightly with greying hair.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “She called Laura just after one o’clock for some water. Laura fell back asleep and finally brought it up a few minutes ago. It looks as if Devon has been dead for at least an hour.”

“Christ, this is a total nightmare,” he said, sweeping his hand through his hair. “What are we supposed to do?”

“You need to call nine-one-one. Do you know what shape the road is in—I mean, has Ralph started plowing it yet?”

“He’s come down with a bad cold and he said he barely made a dent in it.”

“Well, the cops will have a four-wheel drive, so hopefully they won’t have much trouble. But an ambulance or morgue van might not be able to get through. When you speak to the nine-one-one operator, you better tell her about the road conditions here. And you might want to mention that this is a high-profile person.”

He took a few steps closer, and I realized he was about to pick up the phone on the bedside table.

“Scott, I wouldn’t use that phone,” I said. “There’s a chance foul play was involved. We shouldn’t get our fingerprints on anything in the room.”

“Foul play? You think someone killed her?”

“It doesn’t look that way, but that’s up to the police to rule out.”

He sighed, shaking his head in discouragement.

“All right, I’ll go grab my cell phone. Laura, you need to run down to the cabin and wake Sandy—and Ralph, if he’s up to it.”

She moaned, as if he’d just asked her to hike into town.

“Laura, go!” he barked, and she turned on her heels. He no longer seemed like the charming I-won’t-even-mind-if-you-tell-another-guest-to-stick-it-in-his-piehole host from earlier in the evening. I guess finding a dead houseguest will do that to you.

“Where’s Jane’s room, by the way?” I asked as he hesitated in the doorway, looking discombobulated.

“She’s next door on the right.”

“Why don’t I wake her while you’re calling 911? She may have a number for Devon’s parents. Once you’re off the phone, I’d suggest you wake Cap.”

“You’re not planning to phone this in to the night desk at Buzz as soon as I leave, are you?” he asked, studying me intently. I couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was being sarcastic or dead serious.

“The number-one priority right now is to get the police here,” I told him. “But this is going to be a major story, and I will have to cover it—just like a zillion other reporters. You and Cap should work out a statement.”

“I’m telling you right now, then. Everything I say from this point on is off the record.”

“Understood,” I said. “I promise to play fair with you on all of this.”

I didn’t like his testiness, but I could hardly blame him. After he left I surveyed the room one more time, closed Devon’s door, and then hurried to Jane’s room. It took about ten knocks to finally rouse her. When she swung open the door, it was like I’d woken a bear from hibernation. Her dark hair was a mass of frizz, and her mouth was twisted in a snarl.

“What now?” she demanded in a voice hoarse from sleep.

“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Jane. Devon is dead.”

Her eyes widened, and I expected some bold exclamation to follow, but her face quickly relaxed and all she said was, “How?”

“We’re not sure. She died in bed apparently, and it looks like she’s been dead at least an hour. Do you have contact information for her family?”

“She’s just got a mother—no father or brothers or sisters. I have a number for her someplace, but there’s no guarantee she’ll pick up. The woman’s a total lush.”

“Why don’t you try, at least? Scott is calling nine-one-one. Is there anything else you can think of—someone who needs to be informed?”

“You mean, like a boyfriend? Not at the moment. I mean there was someone Wednesday night, but I don’t believe she got his name.”

Note to self, I thought: Do not assign Jane the task of writing my eulogy.

I told her that I was going back to meet with Scott and that we would probably wait in the big barn. She should look for us there and report on whether she connected with the mother. Backing away, I also warned her not to go into Devon’s room and not to make any calls about Devon’s death without consulting with Cap.

“I’m perfectly aware of the need to be sensitive about the media,” she said. “That’s my job twenty-four/seven—or at least it was.”

As I headed back down the hall, Scott reached the top of the stairs. He’d managed to zip his jeans and button his shirt in the time he’d been away.

“The police are on their way,” he reported, coming toward me, “but it’s going to take a while because of the snow, they said. My guess—at least an hour.”

We heard the downstairs door bang open. A moment later Sandy came storming up the stairs, wearing a puffy blue parka over her flannel pajamas, with Laura trailing behind her.

“She’s really dead?” she asked anxiously of Scott.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s in her room—in bed. I’ve already called the police.”

We were positioned just ahead of Devon’s room. Sandy barged past us and started to reach for the doorknob.

“Please don’t go in there,” I told her firmly.

“I’m responsible for this place, and I’ll go in there if I please,” she snapped.

“That could be a crime scene, and the police won’t be amused to learn that you’ve been in there just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Sandy, she’s right,” Scott said. “Don’t go in the room. This is something the police have to handle. Where’s Ralph?”

“I think he has bronchitis,” she said, her expression sour from having been chided. “I don’t think he can get out of bed.”

To my surprise, the door to Jessie’s room suddenly eased open and Jessie took a half step into the hall, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light. She was all bundled up in the white terrycloth bathrobe.

“What’s going on?” she asked. From the groggy expression on her face, it appeared she had just woken up. Hmmm, I thought. Why hadn’t she been in Scott’s room like the night before?

“Devon is dead,” Scott and I both said in unison.

Jessie’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.

“Look, this is going to be a long night,” Scott announced to all of us. “Sandy, why don’t you go over to the big barn and put on some coffee. We can all hang there. I’m going to wake up Cap—and Christian. They both need to know what’s going on. As for the others, there seems no point in getting them up until later.”

“I have to get dressed first,” Jessie said. She flashed me a look that I couldn’t read and retreated back into her room. Sandy and Laura headed toward the stairs.

I told Scott that I would get dressed too, and then meet him shortly.

“But before you go, Scott,” I said, “I think it would be a good idea to lock the room.”

He looked off, thinking for a second. “Okay, that’s probably smart,” he said. He called out to Sandy, who was just a couple of steps down the stairs, to throw him her house keys. Dutifully she drew a ring of keys from the pocket of her parka, but there was a begrudging expression on her face as she walked back and handed them to Scott. He locked the door and stuffed the keys in the pocket of his pants, where they created a jagged-looking bulge.

Back inside my room, I dug a pair of jeans out of my duffel bag and slipped them on with a turtleneck sweater. I was relieved to have a few minutes to myself. Already people were popping out of doorways as if they were actors in a British farce, and things were only going to get crazier as the night wore on. I needed a few moments to process everything that had transpired.

According to Laura, Devon had called extension seven for water, saying she didn’t feel well enough to get up. Whatever had killed her—whether it was a heart attack due to an eating disorder or some combination of drugs and alcohol—may have already begun to take hold. But I kept coming back to what I’d witnessed earlier: Devon freaking out in the forest. Devon feeling in danger.

What really mystified me was the second call Laura had received. Laura had assumed it was from Devon, but that wasn’t possible. So why would someone else be phoning the help in the middle of the night?

No matter what had really occurred, this was going to be a huge story—and before long I would need to wake Nash Nolan, the editor in chief of Buzz, who would want to break the story online as soon as possible. But I had to talk to the police first. I’d landed in hot water earlier in the fall for filing a story before sharing key info with the cops, and I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

I also felt a huge urge to call Beau. I was feeling a bit shell-shocked over Devon’s death, and it would be good to talk to him about what had happened. But it was one o’clock Arizona time, and he would surely be in bed by now.

A moment later, I knocked on Jessie’s door. She’d thrown on a pair of cargo pants and a brown sweater.

“Thank God it’s you,” she exclaimed as she opened the door. “Tell me what happened. Did she OD or something?”

I shared the sequence of events and the guesses I’d made about cause of death.

“How horrible,” she said. “There wasn’t one single thing I liked about the woman, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy she’s dead.”

“Can I be blunt here? What were you doing in your own room tonight?”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. “You don’t want to know.”

“Lovers’ quarrel?”

“I wish. I’m almost too embarrassed to say. It actually has something to do with you.”

“What? Tell me.”

“Well, everyone else had gone to bed, and we started making out on the couch. There I was, expecting another night like the previous one. And then—with my boob in his hand—he says . . . oh shit, I can hardly stand to say it. He said, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun if Bailey joined us.’ ”

“Oh, jeez.” I groaned. “Was there any chance he was kidding?”

“Well, at first I thought it was just his idea of a joke—he’d had a fair amount to drink. But then he starts whispering about how he’d love to please both of us at the same time. I wanted to cry. No offense, of course. You know you’re hot, Bailey, but I can’t believe he had the gall to suggest a threesome. I just stood up and marched back to my room.”

“Oh Jessie, I’m sorry. You must feel awful.”

“Miserable. I really liked the guy—and what’s worse, I slept with him. My number is already higher than I’d like, and now I’ve wasted a slot on a total asshole.”

“Are you going to feel uncomfortable going up for coffee?”

“Yes—but it beats staying in my room knowing there’s a dead body a few yards away. Speaking of which, what do we do about Buzz? Shouldn’t we be phoning this in? Dead celeb sort of falls under your jurisdiction.”

“I’m planning to call Nash, but I need to wait until the police have had a chance to talk to me. I was in the room, and it’s my obligation to speak to them first.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted us as we entered the living area. Sandy was bustling nervously at the kitchen counter while Scott, Jane, and Cap huddled at the island. Laura Ash was sitting alone at the dining table, appearing glum as all get-out. And a solemn-looking Whitney was on one of the couches, working a pair of knitting needles and a fat ball of yarn.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, approaching the group by the island as Jessie slunk off toward a couch. Cap’s face was pinched in despair. If he had been having an affair with Devon, this experience was a helluva lot worse than simply losing a longtime client.

“We’re trying to put a statement together,” Cap said. “We’d like a few minutes alone, if you don’t mind.”

Trying not to look thrown by the snub, I quickly poured a cup of coffee and joined Whitney and Jessie on the couch.

“This must be awful for Cap,” I said softly to Whitney.

“For both of us,” she said above the steady clicking of her silver needles. “Devon’s been Cap’s client for seven years. I just pray to God she didn’t suffer.”

“Did she have any health problems that you were aware of?”

“Health problems?” Whitney sniffed. “She was only thirty-four. What health problems could she possibly have had?”

“Anorexia. Or bulimia. Some kind of eating disorder.”

“Devon had struggled with weight issues in the past, but she managed to put that behind her. Though I’m sure that will all be dragged out again in your magazine and places like that. This may sound horribly old-fashioned, but where I come from, we still believe that if you can’t say anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”

I wondered if she also believed in unicorns.

“As I told Scott, we’re off the record here,” I said. “This is a tough situation, and Jessie and I want to help in any way.”

“There’s just so much to do right now,” Whitney said. “A statement to the press, funeral arrangements, a memorial service in New York possibly—and here we are, snowbound.”

“Was Jane able to reach Devon’s mother?” I asked.

“Yes, but she apparently wasn’t sober, and Jane’s not sure how much she actually digested. If I had my phone with me, I’d call her myself. I just dread going back to the room alone.”

“Here, use my BlackBerry,” I said, handing it to her in the hope she’d see that I wasn’t the enemy.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting it. She stared at it for a moment, then shook her head and handed it back.

“What am I thinking?” she said. “The number’s on my phone. And it’s probably best for Cap to make the call anyway.”

Scott drifted over a moment later and announced that he had made an executive decision to wake the others and fill them in. Within the next fifteen minutes, Richard, Tommy, and Tory joined us in the great room. Everyone appeared stunned, but there weren’t any tears. From the corner of my eye I watched Richard pour coffee and sink back with his cup into one of the leather armchairs. I was dying to know what was racing through his mind beneath the wild tufts of bed-head hair. He was a reporter too. Surely he was wondering who he should give the story to.

For the next hour and a half we waited, with people sometimes drifting in and out of the room. Finally, at around 5:00 a.m., we heard the sound of a gunned motor, a vehicle forcing its way through the snow on the driveway. Scott rose to go downstairs, and I followed him. He turned once in surprise but didn’t question my presence.

Before anyone could knock, Scott flung open the double doors. Two plainclothes cops were standing in the cold, their coats dusted with snowflakes. They stepped inside and introduced themselves. Detective Ray was a short, beer-gutted guy of about fifty, with a silver skunk streak in his hair. Detective Collinson was tall, slim, and in his midthirties, I guessed. He was what my mother called black Irish—dark hair, charcoal black eyes, and very white skin, in his case almost Draculean. There was a swollen quality to his face, as if he were on steroids for some kind of health ailment. It was clear after a moment that Collinson, the younger one, was the man in charge.

Scott explained very quickly what had happened. He presented himself as open, eager to cooperate, but at the same time firmly in charge and not at all obsequious. I would have been impressed except I kept remembering that hours earlier he’d suggested to Jessie that he wanted to add me to his personal spank bank. When he finished talking, I briefly offered my portion of the story, describing how I’d been woken by Laura and had gone into Devon’s room to investigate.

Natch, the cops wanted to see the body right away. We accompanied them to the small barn, and when we reached Devon’s room, Scott unlocked the door. While the cops entered the room, Scott and I stood silently in the hall cooling our heels, not making eye contact. The police emerged about ten minutes later.

“Where is this Laura Ash now?” Collinson asked.

Scott informed them that she was back with the others, and Collinson said he would like to speak to her in private, and then to Scott and me in that order. The other guests could be interviewed randomly once the police were finished with us. Scott suggested using his study on the ground floor of the bigger barn. Devon’s bedroom was relocked before we left.

Laura was questioned for about ten minutes, and when she came back upstairs, she appeared totally stricken, as if she’d just turned over critical info about a mob boss. I wondered if there was something Laura hadn’t told me or whether she was being eaten up by guilt for not having delivered the water when Devon initially called her. Scott’s interview lasted about twenty minutes, and then it was my turn.

“You’ve been up since before three,” Collinson said to me, gesturing toward a chair. “You must be awfully tired by this point. I appreciate your cooperation.”

I had dealt with more than a few local police over the years, and most seemed to overcompensate for their small jurisdictions by acting fairly gruff or bossy. This dude was different. His soft-spoken approach was a real departure. But I told myself to be careful. For all I knew, his easy style was simply a way to lower someone’s guard.

“I’m on my fifth cup of coffee, so I’m awake enough,” I said. “Before we start, it’s only fair for me to point out that I’m a journalist. I cover celebrity crime for Buzz magazine—and this will definitely be something I’m expected to report on. But I haven’t done anything yet. I want to first help in the investigation.”

Collinson eyed me silently for a moment. Ray blinked and squeezed his eyes shut for a beat or two. It was a weird little tic he had.

“Thank you for your candor,” Collinson said finally. “Now why don’t you take us through what happened again, but this time step by step.”

I did as he said, leaving nothing out—except of course Scott’s request to take Jessie and me to pleasure heaven at the same time. Just in case Laura hadn’t been a hundred percent forthcoming, I mentioned the time gap in Laura’s response to the phone call from Devon as well as the mystery call—though from Collinson’s blank expression, I had no way of telling whether this was new info or not. I also recounted my brief conversation at the edge of the woods with Devon Saturday morning. This, of course, was new, and he sat up straighter.

“That was all she said?” he asked. “Nothing specific?”

“No, nothing specific—and she seemed fine a short time later. But she definitely looked rattled in the woods.”

“Was anyone using drugs here tonight?”

Aha. He might look mild-mannered, but he wasn’t going to pull any punches with his questions.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I said. I added, though, that Devon had appeared to be buzzed when she left for bed.

“Any theories then about what might have happened to Ms. Barr?”

“I thought of drugs, too, but I also wondered if she might have died as a result of complications from an eating disorder. She seemed very thin. And as you saw, there was the bottle of ipecac in the bathroom—the stuff used to induce vomiting.”

Slowly Collinson turned his gaze toward Ray, who blinked hard and then shook his head.

“There was nothing like that in the bathroom,” Ray said. “Nothing like that at all.”