So Pretty It Hurts (20 page)

“And if you don’t learn anything tomorrow?”

“I have no clue what I’ll do next. I like to think that the cops will determine Devon was murdered, and it will become clear that the killer wanted to sully my reputation. But the cops upstate don’t seem to buy my theory. So if I can’t prove to Nash that I’m innocent, I’ll be out of a job. And it might affect me getting work elsewhere.”

Beau shook his head in concern and tugged the knot of his tie away from his neck, loosening it.

“You’re all dressed up,” I said. “What were you doing tonight?”

I didn’t mean it as any kind of accusation—it was curiosity plain and simple—but when the words emerged from my mouth, there was a definite edge to them.

“Jeez, Bailey. I can’t make a move, it seems, without you wondering if I’ve been up to something totally clandestine and sinister. What is it? Do you think I’m really 007? Or just your garden-variety cheater?”

“I wasn’t wondering
anything
just now,” I said. “You said you were in my neighborhood, and I was simply curious about what you’d been doing.”

He sighed.

“Okay, maybe this time it was innocent enough,” he said. “But we’ve got a problem. You don’t trust me, and when you fester enough about it, you feel you have to pay me back somehow. Is this always going to be our pattern? I end up needing to go out of town or don’t tell you every detail about my past, and then you feel obligated to pour your heart out to some actor who plays a mortician on TV?”

“As I
explained
to you,” I said, “he was helping me with the Devon Barr case and nothing more.”

I was tempted to add, “And for your information, he plays a forensic detective with the medical examiner’s office, not a freakin’
mortician
,” but I had the surprising good sense not to.

“You’re missing the point, Bailey,” Beau said. “It’s going to be
some
kind of payback. You feel a need for it because you don’t trust me.”

I’d perched on the edge of an armchair, directly across from Beau, but I rose now, crossed my arms against my chest, and paced a few feet in one direction and then a few feet in the other.

“On the one hand it seems I—I should trust you,” I said. “You say all the right things. And believe it or not, I’m not one of those maniacal women who rummage through a guy’s drawers or hack into his computer. But sometimes you just seem oddly vague about your actions. Take Sedona, for instance. You suddenly announce you have to see this guy, and yet you don’t want to give away much in the way of details about him. Like—God, I don’t know . . .”

“Like I was just making him up?”

“You said it, not me.”

“I’ll give you his cell phone number, and you can call him. The bottom line is that you should know me well enough by now to realize that I’m not a fan of the unessential. I needed to include the guy in the film, but frankly he’s too boring to get into a discussion about.”

“What about that British girl in Turkey? Was
that
really unessential information?”

“You and I weren’t in a relationship at that time.”

“But when you came back to the States, you implied to me that Turkey was a bore socially—it was just you and the dust and a lot of ancient stones.”

“It
was
a bore. If you really want the truth, yes, Abigail and I were having sex, lots of sex, but it was not a particularly satisfying experience for me. I was beginning to realize that I really wanted to be with you—and only you. When I got back I made a commitment to you, so what good would it have been to share the gory details?”

Try as I could, I was unable to chase away an image of Beau and Abigail naked in the sack. Abigail was bouncing up and down on him, the spitting image of Pippa Middleton.

I felt suddenly tongue-tied.

“Look, I’m sorry for being so blunt,” Beau said. “But I am at my wits’ end here.”

“No, I appreciate the truth. As you say, we hadn’t made any commitment before you went to Turkey. And I see now that there was nothing to be concerned about in Sedona. But—” I halted a moment, trying to pull my thoughts together. “I think deep down what’s really bothering me is that your vagueness when you tell me something shows a kind of hesitation on your part. I worry that I’ve pushed you into making a commitment, and you’re really not ready for it.”

Ouch. I couldn’t believe I’d said it. Beau set down his beer bottle on the coffee table and tapped his finger gently on his lips a few times. I could tell by his eyes that he was deciding exactly how to respond. Finally he let out a big sigh.

“Bailey, I know there are guys out there who don’t know their own minds, but I’ve never considered myself to be one of them. I said I was ready, and I am. But it seems more and more to me that
you’re
the one who has the problem making a commitment. I feel you look for excuses to push me away—and then you blame
me
. Pardon me for playing shrink, but I honestly feel as if you’re trying to transfer your own fear of being in a relationship to me.”

I absolutely cringed at his words—not only because they stung but because I’d heard them before. I struggled to find some way to respond, but nothing came out.

“Okay,” he said, tossing his hand up. “You have lots of other stuff to contend with right now, and I don’t want to put extra pressure on you. But the ball’s in your court, Bailey. You’ve got to decide what you want—or we both need to move on.”

He rose from the couch, crossed the room, and reached for his coat. That was enough to jump-start my vocal ability. “I—I really want to think about what you said, Beau,” I told him, walking toward him. “Will you give me a couple of days?”

“Of course,” he said quietly. He leaned down and kissed me lightly on the lips. As he slipped out the door, I had the sinking sense that things between us were now totally tenuous.

I paced the living room for a few minutes, beer bottle in hand. My stomach was churning big-time. Did the problem
really
lie with me? I asked myself. Jack Herlihy, the psych professor I’d broken up with last winter, had said I had a problem committing, and Chris Wickersham had suggested the same. Was it all part of a life pattern with me, the result of having a father who’d died when I was twelve and an ex-husband who lied again and again to cover up monstrous gambling debts? I winced, just thinking about how clichéd it all sounded. If they made a Lifetime
movie of my life, I realized, it would have to be played by some triple-named actress like Jennifer Love Hewitt or Tiffani-Amber Thiessen.

My cell phone rang from inside my purse just as I drained the last of my beer. It was Jessie.

“I just wanted to check on how you were doing,” she said.

“Thanks, Jess. I’m trying not to wallow in my misery, but it’s tough.”

“Did you definitely decide to go to the funeral tomorrow? If you did, there are a couple additional details I wanted to share.”

“Yep, I’m headed out there—but incognito.”

“Okay, from what I could find out, Thornwell is going, and so is that girl Stacy, the senior editor who just started. And there’ll be a bunch of freelance paparazzi. Some of them might recognize you if they saw you.”

“Good to know. I’m going to have to do my best not to let anyone spot me. If Nash finds out, it will make matters even worse.”

“I can barely look at the guy without puking. Have you found out anything more?”

I told her about my investigation so far, the revelations I’d dug up, including the info about Richard’s sister. Also, because she was my friend and not simply a work pal, I told her about my harrowing experience with the gypsy cab driver. Just talking about it made my pulse start to pound.

“That’s horrible,” Jessie exclaimed. “Did you tell the police?”

“Yeah, but they weren’t very helpful. To be honest, I’m
more
upset about what’s happening to me with
Buzz.
Do you think that Nash is really trying to clear me?”

Jessie sighed.

“He may be,” she said, “but from my vantage point out on the floor, it looks like he’s just going about his business. I thought something was up this morning. He was in a pissy mood, and later he was talking to a bunch of guys in his office, but someone told me those were dudes from the circulation department. Our newsstand numbers are down, like all the other tabloids. That seems to be his main focus, from what people are saying.”

“I wonder if he turned the investigation over to the legal department.”

“I don’t know. I arranged to have lunch on Monday with one of the younger lawyers I know on the corporate floor. I’m going to see what I can find out from her.”

“Jessie, I so appreciate your help. Just don’t make trouble for yourself by snooping around.”

“Don’t worry. This chick is a real busybody. She gossips an awful lot for a lawyer.”

“Wait,” I said. My heart had just done a weird lurch. “What did you say?”

“She likes to gossip.”

“No, before that.

“She’s a busybody.”

“Um, okay,” I said, distractedly. I had to fight for a second to catch a breath. “Look, I better sign off and get ready for tomorrow. I’ll call you when I’m back and let you know how it went.”

I tossed my BlackBerry in my purse and collapsed on the couch. My heart was beating hard now. Because I finally knew what the gypsy cab driver had yelled to me from his window. Not “Stop. Be a body.” He’d said, “
Stop being a busy
body
.”

It was a threat. As if he knew exactly who I was and what I’d been up to.

Chapter 19

I
t 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.