So Pretty It Hurts

Chapter 5

The first thought that flew through my mind—and it wasn’t a very nice one—was that maybe Detective Ray had blinked too long and missed it. Then I wondered if he might have mistaken the small bottle for some kind of beauty potion.

“I’m positive it was there,” I told the two men. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Yes, please,” Collinson said bluntly.

Back we went to the guest quarters. The sky was faint with color now, as if someone were shining a flashlight through a burlap sack. I could see that it was still snowing. How would we all make it out of here today? I wondered.

Collinson unlocked the door to Devon’s room with the keys Scott had obviously turned over to him and motioned for me to enter. After leading me past the bed, he asked me to examine the bathroom, and without touching anything, point to where the ipecac had been.

“Someone’s taken it,” I said, shocked. “Someone managed to get into the room and remove it.”

“Why do you think someone would do that?” Collinson asked evenly.

“I haven’t any idea,” I told him. “Maybe—I don’t know, maybe to protect Devon’s reputation? So it wouldn’t come out that she was bulimic.”

He ushered me back into the bedroom.

“The bathroom light was off when Detective Ray and I entered the room earlier. How then did you happen to see the bottle?”

My mind raced as I deliberated whether I should try to fudge my answer just to protect my butt—but I decided against it. I’d had my butt singed before from being less than forthcoming with cops.

“I looked in the bathroom when I found Devon’s body,” I said. “I thought it might be helpful to see if she’d taken any drugs.”

“Helpful to you as a reporter?” he asked.

See, I’d been smart not to underestimate him.

“Yes, partly,” I conceded. “But mainly I just wanted to know what was going on. At least we now know that someone with sticky fingers has been sneaking around.”

“All right, Miss Weggins, you can go back with the others,” Collinson said. “We will join you in a few minutes.”

When I reached the great room, everyone looked up but no one said anything. I poured yet another cup of coffee in the kitchen area and motioned with a look for Jessie to join me at the island. As she made her way over, Detective Ray appeared at the top of the stairs and asked Scott to return to the study. I figured the cops wanted to chat with him about how someone had managed to slip into Devon’s locked bedroom.

“You okay?” I whispered to Jessie when she reached me.

“Yeah, but this is so freaky,” she said anxiously. “Am I going to be interrogated?”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Just tell them what you know—and you and I will catch up later.”

“This whole weekend has turned into a nightmare,” she said. “The only good news is that Nash is going to kiss our asses for being at the scene. When are you going to call it in?”

“In just a bit. I want to keep my eye on what’s going on here for a while.”

As I sipped my coffee at the counter, I mulled over the missing ipecac. The person who had taken it would have needed a key, and Scott came immediately to mind—he had pocketed Sandy’s keys after using them. At one point while we’d been waiting, he and Sandy had donned coats and gone across to the cabin to check on Ralph and then returned separately. That would have offered him the chance to stop by Devon’s room. But why would it matter to him if the world learned she’d used something to make her puke after meals? He might have had a vested interest in protecting Devon’s reputation when she was alive, but now that she was dead, the fact that she’d been bulimic probably wouldn’t matter.

If it wasn’t Scott who had done it, then who else could have had access to the room? Somewhere on the premises there had to be another set of keys.

As soon as Scott returned from his second round of questioning, Detective Ray called Jane’s name and she trudged down the stairs. Scott walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a carton of orange juice, and filled a glass.

“Can I talk to you privately?” I said after walking over to where he was standing.

“Okay,” he said without enthusiasm. With me following, he edged over to a corner of the room.

“I assume the police asked you how someone might have gained access to Devon’s locked bedroom,” I said, when we were out of earshot of the others.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Because when I found the body, I saw something in the room that isn’t there anymore—and I told them about it. It was a bottle of ipecac syrup.”

“Ipe—what?”

“Ipecac. It’s a liquid used to induce vomiting. Did you take it from her room?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking that. Of course not. I never went back in there.”

“But someone did. How do you think they got in?”

“Shit,” he said suddenly, and his eyes flashed with recognition. “I bet I know how they did it. I had Sandy’s keys in my pocket, but they kept jabbing into my leg, so I took them out and laid them on the counter by the stove. I picked them back up when the cops arrived because I was going to have to let them into Devon’s room. Someone must have swiped them for a while and then returned them to the counter.”

I looked off, thinking. Though people had hung in the great room until the police arrived, mostly everyone had slipped out at some point for a few minutes. Jane had returned to her room for the phone numbers of people that had to be on the initial contact list Cap was putting together—and later I had overheard Christian say he was going back to his room for his cell phone in case he needed it. Whitney had set down her knitting needles about an hour into our wait and said she was going to take a shower. Cap had walked her back and returned. Tommy had announced the need for a cigarette and disappeared outside. Richard had made a point of saying he was heading downstairs to the loo, and he’d been gone for a good ten minutes. From what I could recall, Tory was the only one who had stayed put, falling asleep for a stretch on one of the sofas. Any one of the others could have snuck the keys into their pocket and let themselves into Devon’s room.

“But look, maybe it’s not that big a deal,” Scott said. “Cap or Christian could have taken the ipecac just so the press would have less to trash Devon about.”

“Was Devon bulimic?”

“I’m only going to talk to you if you guarantee that we are totally off the record.”

“I told you we were. You have my word.”

“It’s pretty clear there was something fucked up about her eating this weekend.”

“Was that a problem for you—the fact that she might have an eating disorder?”

“Look, I’ve had artists who were heroin addicts or alleged rapists. I’m not in the business of passing judgment.”

“Let me shift direction for a second. Was there any reason that you know of for Devon to be frightened this weekend?”

“Frightened? What are you talking about?”

I described what Devon had said to me by the woods. Scott shook his head in disbelief, but he appeared agitated by the news.

“You’re making it sound like The Hound of the Baskervilles up here, for God’s sake. What could have possibly frightened her other than a few field mice running along the wall?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. She said someone knew something.”

He sighed and combed a hand through his hair.

“I haven’t a clue what it could have been,” he said. “As far as I know, she was just being a diva—making it up so someone would take her back to New York.” He tugged at his ear and snickered. “Though if she’d gone back early, it might have foiled her brilliant little master plan.”

“What master plan is that?”

“You saw the intense eye-fucking going on between Devon and Tommy. I’m pretty sure she wanted him back, and that was the main reason she invited him and Tory up here.”

“What was her history with Tommy, anyway?”

“I don’t know all the sordid details, but from what I’ve heard they were hot and heavy last winter, and then sometime this summer he dumped her. They apparently stayed on decent terms, though, and she was the one who set him up with Tory. I like a mix of guests on the weekends, and I was happy to invite some of Devon’s entourage, but I had the last bedroom earmarked for a pal of mine. Until Devon insisted that I include Tory and Tommy.”

“And you really think she was trying to steal Tommy back?”

“It seemed pretty obvious to me. She was trying to bewitch him—with the bare breasts and cocky attitude. But most of all by having him hear that voice of hers.”

“Was Devon supposed to be pretty good friends with Tory?”

“I guess. Though how tight can you be with someone who thinks that the ozone is something you find yourself in right before you have an orgasm? Look, not that it isn’t fabulous chatting with you, but I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

“Just one more question. What’s the latest on the road? Are we going to be able to make it out of here today?” With every inch of snow that fell, the sinking feeling in my tummy was growing worse. I didn’t want to get stuck indefinitely in the barns from hell.

“That’s what I’m going to take care of now. Ralph is too ill to plow, and I need to find a guy who can.”

As he wandered off, I pulled Jessie aside again.

“I’m going to call Nash now,” I told her. “Keep an eye out here, okay? Something kind of weird is going on. I’ll tell you more later.”

Before I could leave, Jane came trudging up the stairs and made a beeline for the muffin basket. I put my plan momentarily on hold and moved toward the island myself, pretending to survey the food. Jane had clearly taken a few swipes at her hair with a brush since I’d last seen her, but she looked just as grumpy—and her face had an unappealing shine to it, which seemed incongruous on such a cold, snowy morning.

“Did you survive your talk with the cops?” I asked, trying to sound collegial but not overeager.

“There was nothing to survive,” she said. “They asked some questions I didn’t know the answers to, and I told them so. I have no idea in the world why Devon suddenly dropped dead.”

She plucked a blueberry muffin from the basket and buttered it. It was clear I was going to have a tough time prying info from her, and I decided it might be smart to warm her up a little bit first.

“It must be tough for you today,” I said, “having to deal with all this. . . .”

“Spare me the Dr. Phil routine, will you?” she said, her mouth still partially stuffed with muffin. “I’m not going to pretend to get all emo over Devon.”

Okay, fake empathy wasn’t working. Time to try a little trash talking.

“I take it working for Devon wasn’t any picnic. How long have you been doing it?”

“Nine fabulous months.”

“How did you end up being her assistant? It’s not exactly the kind of job—”

“You’d expect a fatty to be doing?” she asked.

“No. The kind of job someone just stumbles into.”

“A girl I know told me about it. The longest Devon had ever had an assistant was like six months. She didn’t hit the help—like Naomi Campbell does—but she was a real uber bitch.”

“How did you manage to survive so long?”

She snorted and took another bite of muffin. This time she waited until she swallowed before answering.

“It’s simple,” she said finally. “I stayed ’cause of the money. She paid combat wages. I made major overtime from driving her up here this weekend. And the reason she never fired me is because she liked having me around. She’d never had anyone in her life who she felt this superior to.”

She set the muffin down and eyed the basket for another as if blueberries had lost their magic for her.

“Are we about done?” she asked, glancing back at me with almost a glare. “I’m not used to getting up at three, and I’m not really in the mood to talk.”

I decided to try one more tack: Get straight to the point.

“Did you go into Devon’s room tonight?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just what I said. Did you go into Devon’s room after you learned she was dead—and remove something?”

“You mean like the cash from her wallet? That’s a pretty nervy thing to ask.”

“No. A bottle of ipecac.”

I could tell from the look in her eyes she knew exactly what that was, and I wasn’t going to get any “Ipe-what?” line from her.

“Why would I do that?” she asked.

“So that no one would know she was bulimic.”

“I couldn’t care less what people think of Devon Barr.”

“Did she have an eating disorder?”

“I assume this is going directly into Buzz magazine?”

“I would use it just as background.”

“She might have,” she said, shrugging. “A month or so ago I started noticing that she didn’t seem to be eating very much. Unless you count green tea, bottled water, and the flecks at the bottom of the Special K box.”

“Last night she called Laura, one of the girls who helped at dinner, and said she wasn’t feeling well. Were you aware of that?”

“Why would I be aware of that? I assisted the woman. I didn’t sleep with her.”

“So you never checked in on her last night after you left here.”

“No.”

“Did you ever call extension seven during the night?”

“What? This is getting ridiculous. Do you mind if I eat my breakfast in peace?”

“I’m almost done. Devon told me she was frightened up here. Do you know why?”

Her brown eyes widened, curious.

“No,” she said. “What was the reason?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. After a minute she just clammed up.”

Jane shrugged. “Maybe it was like a Twilight Zone episode,” she said. “She took a look in the mirror one day and saw the real her. That would have been really frightening.”

She plucked another muffin, this one corn, and after plopping it on a plate, headed over toward one of the sofas. There were other people I wanted to talk to, but it was time to get Nash on the phone and fill him in on what had happened.

I hurried back to my room, squinting in the passageway from the emerging daylight. To my surprise the snow had turned to a steady rain that streaked and fogged the windows. Hopefully it was warming up, and some of the snow on the road would melt away.

Back in my room, I called Nash’s cell. Though he was used to being phoned at all hours—particularly with celeb DWIs—he answered groggily.

“Give yourself a minute to wake up,” I told him. “Because I’ve got big news.”

“Christ, that is big,” he said after I’d taken him through everything. “How soon can you get me something?”

“I have my laptop with me, and it shouldn’t take me more than thirty minutes to write something up and e-mail you. Then I’ll file reports as things progress.”

“Where are you exactly, anyway?”

“About two hours north of the city. The one fly in the ointment is that it’s been snowing like crazy. On the one hand it’s a good thing because I want to talk to people here—and they’re stranded. But eventually Jessie and I need to find our way back to Manhattan. It’s a little bit like The Shining up here.”

He told me that he’d be pulling staff into the office to dig background for the story and begin producing the obligatory sidebars on the life and times of Devon Barr.

“See if you can find anything about her having an eating disorder,” I said. “I think it could have played a role in her death.”

I needed to start writing stat, but there was one thing I had to take care of first: let Cap know I was now filing the story. Plenty of reporters I knew at Buzz would just go ahead and deal later with any flak that resulted from all the people who’d been bruised in the process. But I never liked to play things that way. It’s not that I’m such a goody-two-shoes, but in the long run people treat you better if you’ve been fair with them. I would need Cap as I pursued this story, and I wanted to alert him to the fact that within the next hour the Buzz Web site would be announcing the death of Devon Barr.

There turned out to be no need to go all the way back to the other barn. As I came down the stairs into the first-floor foyer, Cap was just emerging from the passageway.

“How are you doing?” I said. “This must be really devastating for you.”

“Yes,” he answered grimly. “It is.”

“Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

“Actually I don’t. I need to retrieve some papers from my room.”

“How about later then?”

“I don’t really think it would be very smart of me to talk to you.”

“I’ll be straight with you,” I said. “I do have to file this story. It’ll be live on the Web site before long, and it will most likely be the cover story of the magazine on Thursday. So wouldn’t it be better for you to have control over the information that gets out there? Plus, I promise you, I won’t sandbag you in any way. I’ll keep you abreast of what I’m doing.”

He shook his head in despair.

“Let me think about it,” he said and moved off.

If Devon had been his lover, this had to be eating him up. Yet there was something else to consider. If the autopsy indicated foul play and he had been her lover, that would make him a prime suspect. I wondered if I should have told the police about the conversation I’d overheard between the two of them—Devon demanding that he would “have to tell her”—but I didn’t like the idea of making trouble for him unnecessarily. If the death was ruled a homicide, I could always inform the cops later.

I reentered my room and headed for the small antique desk near the window. Stretching my arms out, I plopped down at the desk. My laptop was already set up there, since I’d planned to do a little research for upcoming articles. I started to open a file, and then I realized something was out of whack. My laptop wasn’t in the same spot it had been in earlier. I like to rest my arms directly in front of it, so I generally leave about four or five inches between the computer and the edge of the desk But now my laptop was right up to the very edge of the desk—as if someone had pulled it closer.

I caught a breath and instinctively looked behind me. There was no one there, of course, but I knew that someone had been in my room. And it wasn’t necessarily the person who had taken Scott’s keys. Jessie and I hadn’t been given keys, so my room had never been locked. Anyone could have gained entrance.

I jumped up from the desk and made a quick sweep of the room. Nothing was missing, and nothing else seemed disturbed. What could the person have wanted? And why check out my computer? To see what I was writing or whether I’d e-mailed Buzz?

I couldn’t afford to dwell on it at the moment. I needed to write and file my story. I dashed out something fast, hitting all the high points. Devon Barr had died during the night at the weekend home of music mogul Scott Cohen. Cause of death still undetermined. The police were on the premises interviewing the houseguests. I listed who they were. I reread it twice and then e-mailed it to Nash and the deputy editor I generally reported to.

After I sent my story, I went on the Internet and did a quick search about eating disorders. I was surprised to see that they were fatal in up to 20 percent of cases. Most frequently in those cases the lack of vital nutrients caused heart arrhythmia, which led to a heart attack and death.

There was plenty more to read, but I wanted to return to the great room to see what was going on. I splashed cold water on my face just to revive myself, and then left my room. Just as I started toward the stairs, Jessie came bounding up them.

“I know I’m supposed to be standing guard, but I wanted to check in. Did you talk to Nash?”

“Yes, and I filed a story. You’ve had your interview with the cops?”

“Yup—and it was so freaky. I had to fight the urge to confess that I cheated once on an AP history test.”

“What did they ask you?”

“Did I observe anything unusual with Devon this weekend? Did I hear anything during the night? And were people using drugs this weekend? I answered no, no, and no. I can’t believe how pale the head cop is. I wonder if anyone’s checked his platelet count lately.”

“What’s going on with all our guests at the moment?”

“Richard is drinking secret Bloody Marys—I caught him pouring a shot of vodka into his tomato juice. And after Tommy was done with his interview, he threatened to leave with Tory until someone convinced him that he’d never get four feet down the road in his Jag.”

“I’m going back over there now, so if you need a break, go for it,” I said.

“Thanks, I may take a short catnap and then I’ll be back to help eavesdrop. You mentioned that something weird was going on. What did you mean?”

I told her about the missing ipecac and my suspicions about someone being in my room. As I’d anticipated, the last bit of news rattled her.

“Crap—there’s a dead body across the hall from me, and someone’s sneaking into people’s bedrooms. You know those horror movies where you want to shout, ‘Get out of the house!’ at the screen? I’m starting to sense that somewhere, someone is shouting that at us.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You can lock your door when you’re in your room, and the cops have the keys now.”

“And how long are we supposed to stick around here for?”

“Since I’m covering this, it’ll be good to hang here for a while at least. And even if we wanted to leave, we might not be able to. For right now at least, the weather has us trapped.”

As I began to descend the stairs, I heard a commotion on the floor below. I scurried down. A team of two men and two women—with water dripping in rivulets off their jackets—had just trudged into the foyer behind Detective Collinson. I figured they were either from the coroner’s office or members of the crime scene unit or a combination of both. Each one of them eyed me curiously, and then proceeded up the stairs. I stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for a moment. Once they entered Devon’s room, I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I returned to the great room, which turned out to be empty now. The group had obviously splintered after the police interviews, with people returning to their rooms. Unless I went knocking on doors, I wasn’t going to be able to talk to anyone.

When I reentered the small barn, I found Scott and Sandy standing just outside the door of a small walk-in storage area in the foyer. The door of the closet was made of barn wood, and it was flush to the wall, so I hadn’t even known it was there before. The expressions on their faces suggested that something wasn’t right.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“There’s a set of keys missing,” Scott announced. “The backup set to all the guest bedrooms.”

“You’re sure?” I asked Sandy.

“Absolutely,” she said. “I saw them there last night when I was getting supplies. And there was no reason for me to touch them. I’ve got my own set.”

“I’d assumed whoever went back into Devon’s room used the set on the counter,” Scott said. “But this is obviously how it was done.”

I’d noticed the night before that there were no bolts on the inside of the bedroom doors, just buttons on the knobs. It also meant that whoever had the keys could gain access to our rooms when we were sleeping and the doors were locked.