So Pretty It Hurts (22 page)

I hadn’t traveled far on the highway when my BlackBerry rang. I had service again. I realized that I had never deleted my SOS e-mails to Landon, Jessie, and Beau, and they’d all gone through. When I answered my phone, a frantic Beau was on the other end.

“Are you okay?” he demanded anxiously. “Are you still in the barn?”

“No, I’m out and I’m fine. But I was nearly killed.” I felt myself tearing, and I shook the drops away. I blurted out what had happened since I’d sent the message.

“God, Bailey, I can’t believe this,” he said, his voice laced with worry. “Is there any chance this person could be following you?”

“No, I bet they beat it out of Pine Grove once the fire started. . . .”

“Do you want me to come meet you someplace?”

“I’m okay. But—it would be great if you could be there when I get home. I’m still pretty shaken up.” Without warning, a sob caught in my throat. “It was just so scary when the smoke filled the barn.”

“Why don’t you call me when you’re about twenty minutes away. I’ll just hop in a cab.”

“You’ve got to do me one other favor. Will you get in touch with both Jessie and Landon and tell them I’m fine? I want to concentrate on the road.”

As soon as I signed off, I checked the rearview mirror instinctively. I was positive I wasn’t being tailed. There’d been stretches on the trip so far when no one had been behind me. But that didn’t mean I was safe. Once the fire starter learned that his efforts had been thwarted, some other deadly plan would surely be hatched.

I’d have to be as careful as I possibly could. My trouble in Pine Grove had sprung in part from not watching my back well enough. I’d thought I was being such a smarty-pants by arriving at the barn early, but my assailant had come even earlier, and must have been parked out in back the whole time. And lucky for them, my BlackBerry hadn’t worked.

Suddenly my stomach flipped over.
Had
it just been luck? I wondered. Or had the killer
known
I had no service in that part of Pennsylvania? And then, one after another, my thoughts fell into place, like a key tripping a lock. Yes, the killer
had
known, I realized. I now had an idea who the fire starter might be. The problem was, there were two possibilities. I was going to have to figure out which one was the culprit.

I made better time than I’d planned, driving eighty miles an hour in my desperation to put as much distance as possible between Pine Grove and my sorry ass. I dropped off the rental, and once I found a cab, I called Beau, telling him I was on my way to my apartment. I felt almost weak from hunger and asked him to pick up food, anything. Plus, having a few more minutes to myself would give me a chance to pop by Landon’s and reassure him.

It turned out to be a good plan because Landon was nearly bug-eyed with worry when he opened his door.

“I can’t tell you what a fright your e-mail gave me,” he said after we’d hugged. “I was about to call not only the police but also Homeland Security. Thank God Beau called me a few minutes later.”

I took him through the story quickly, knowing Beau would be arriving any minute.

“Who’s
doing
this to you?” Landon asked.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I have a few ideas.”

“And you’re going to fill the upstate police in, right?”

“Yes. The detective in charge up there didn’t seem to buy my idea that Devon might have been murdered, but this may change his mind. The problem is that he doesn’t have any jurisdiction down here, and that’s going to limit what he does. Hopefully he can involve the state police.”

“Please don’t give me the usual Bailey Weggins punch line—that you’ll have to take matters into your own hands. It terrifies me when you say that.”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“Oy.”

“But I’ll be careful. I made a mistake at the barn—I let down my guard. I just can’t do that again.”

After giving him another squeeze, I scampered back to my place. Jessie called just while I was letting myself in, and I reassured her, too. And then moments later the doorman was buzzing to tell me that Beau was on the way up. He arrived carrying not only a deep-dish pizza but also a bottle of wine. As soon as he set the stuff down, we hugged each other fiercely.

“I’m just so relieved you’re all right,” he said, pulling back enough to study my face. “In those two minutes between when I read your e-mail and talked to you on the phone, I felt totally frantic.”

“Thanks for being there for me tonight.”

“What do you need first? Pizza? Wine? A shoulder to cry on?”

“Everything at the same time,” I said.

I practically inhaled the pizza, though I also managed to fill in the blanks of the story for Beau. When I’d polished off three slices, I leaned back into one of the chairs at my dining table and took a slug of wine. Beau sat across from me, his back to the window. Behind him was my enchanting Manhattan view, at this hour just the dark outline of a dozen apartment buildings dabbed with lights and topped with old wooden water tanks. It always seemed wonderfully fake to me, like the backdrop for a Broadway show.

What a relief to be here, I thought—not just safe in my apartment, but with Beau.

“I’ve never seen you devour food that way,” Beau said, laughing. “There were a couple of times where I thought I might have to administer the Heimlich maneuver.”

“I think it’s because I’m so hyped up. Being trapped in that barn and then smelling the smoke and not knowing if I’d get out. I guess feeling lucky to be alive has made me ravenous. I want to consume everything in sight.”

“Should I take that as a promise or a warning?” Beau said, smiling.

I laughed. We had once again shoved our troubles aside because of Devon Barr, but that was okay.

Beau’s expression turned suddenly sober. He pushed his chair back and crossed one leg over the other.

“So the person who did this was surely one of the houseguests. And they were all out in Pennsylvania, right?”

“Yes, they were all there,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure that whoever locked me in the barn is also the one who put Sherrie up to calling Nash. It’s all part of a plan to shut me down.”

“And obviously the reason for their actions is that they’re afraid you could expose them.”

“Exactly. The person must be the one who put the Lasix in Devon’s water.”

“So who has your vote at the moment?”

“It’s someone pretty clever,” I said. “They found a desolate location, waited for me to arrive, and had the accelerant ready. The only person I’d automatically eliminate would be Tory—she doesn’t seem smart enough to know how fires even
start
.”

“But they weren’t all that clever, were they? You could have called 911 and been rescued fairly quickly. It was fortunate for them that you had no service.”

“No,” I said. “That’s what I thought initially, but on the drive back I realized it wasn’t at all a matter of them being lucky.”

Beau squinted his deep brown eyes at me.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not tracking.”

“I’m pretty sure the person
knew
I didn’t have service in Pine Grove. They knew that even if I had my phone with me in the barn, it wouldn’t work.”

“So somehow they knew what carrier you used?”

“Yes. And I know who it is. Or rather who
they
are. Last weekend two of Scott’s houseguests used my BlackBerry. And I think one of them must be the killer.”

Chapter 21

“W
ho?” Beau exclaimed.

I stared into my wineglass for a moment, gathering my thoughts before speaking.

“Whitney, for one,” I said. “I loaned her my BlackBerry briefly after Devon died. I know she’s been to Pine Grove before
—
because she made a comment about the town being some sad little place. And that’s no surprise. Cap was Devon’s manager, and he’d probably driven out there at times and taken Whitney with him.”

“So do you think that Cap really
was
having an affair with Devon—and Whitney found out about it?”

I shook my head slowly back and forth.

“I just don’t have a good read on that right now,” I said. “Whitney is so adamant that there was nothing going on between Cap and Devon, and she and Cap seem fiercely devoted to each other these days. I’m wondering if something may have been going on
earlier
, and Whitney just discovered it. Maybe she also found out that Devon had been pregnant with Cap’s baby, which would make the news even harder to stomach.”

“So the whole thing about Cap being unable to have sex could just be bullshit?”

“Well, perhaps he can’t now but could last fall. And here’s a wacky detail to consider. According to Christian, Devon conceived through some kind of fertility treatments. I assumed when he told me that it was in vitro. But what if the fertility issues had involved Cap, not Devon? Devon may have wanted to conceive by him, and he agreed, but he has lupus, and that can affect a man’s ability to have an erection. So perhaps they arranged for Cap’s sperm to be extracted and artificially inseminated.”

“Sounds awfully far-fetched.”

“I know. But there’s something odd about Devon’s whole pregnancy, and I keep wondering if it fits into her murder somehow. One second she’s pregnant, and then all of a sudden the baby’s gone and she’s happily dating Tommy, like the whole thing was barely a blip in her life. Of course, maybe she considered losing the baby a lucky break because she’d just developed the hots for Tommy, and as he told me the other night, he doesn’t—”

I paused in shock. An incredible thought had just flung itself into my brain.

“He doesn’t
what
?” Beau asked.

“He doesn’t ‘do babies,’ ” I said quietly. “He basically loathes kids. Devon met Tommy in November of last year, when she was a few months pregnant, but probably capable of disguising it with the right outfit. What if she learned about Tommy’s aversion to rug rats—she probably fished for his thoughts on the subject because of her condition—and realized that, unlike Brad Pitt, he wasn’t going to have any interest in dating her when she had a screaming tot in tow. So—so she decided to do something about it.”

“What are you saying exactly?” Beau asked. “That she had an
abortion
?”

“Yes,” I said. “That she had an abortion.”

Beau shook his head in near disbelief as he poured us each another glug of wine.

“So Devon Barr went through all the trouble of fertility treatments and then
ended
the pregnancy?” he said. “What kind of woman would do that?”

“A woman like Devon,” I said ruefully. “You know, my mother said something to me yesterday on the phone about how after you’ve had a baby, your life is never the same, and it’s been niggling at me ever since. Devon was totally narcissistic, someone who didn’t give a damn about anything other than her immediate gratification. And while being pregnant worked for her one moment, it didn’t the next. She was afraid that a baby would screw up the life she suddenly envisioned with Tommy.”

“But how would that circle back to Whitney as a suspect?”

“I have no freaking clue,” I said. “But if I’m right and Devon did have an abortion, maybe Whitney’s suspicions were raised for some reason, and in digging deeper, she found out Cap was the father. Perhaps the whole fertility treatment thing was a lie—something Devon made up as a smokescreen to cover up the fact that Cap
was
the father. And of course, maybe Cap killed Devon when he learned she’d aborted his child. God, my head hurts just thinking about this stuff.

“And,” I added, “there’s a problem with the idea of Whitney as the killer. She seems really caught up in the lifestyle she has with Cap, and she would have known that in murdering Devon, she was slaughtering the golden goose. And yet—I don’t know. I sense there’s something there, but I don’t know what yet.”

“Tell me who else you loaned your phone to.”

“Christian. I tossed it to him when the lights went out.”

“But wouldn’t he have been slaughtering the golden goose, too?”

“True, but Devon may have been holding something over him—something related to the modeling agency. Cap told me that Devon had a complaint she wanted him to share with the head of First Models, but he wouldn’t say what it was about. Maybe it involved Christian, and he was wise to her.”

“What could a model booker have done that would be so bad?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but my guess is that it would involve money.”

I was feeling a little anxious being on the current subject because the name Chris Wickersham seemed dangerously close to the surface. It wouldn’t be hard for Beau to guess that this is why I’d met up with Chris. Time to move off the topic.

“Would you mind if we hit the sack now?” I asked. “Every muscle in my body aches. I guess my lack of training as a hay-bale tosser has caught up with me.”

“Sure,” Beau said. “And why don’t I massage some of those achy muscles for you?” I accepted gratefully.

In the bedroom, Beau gently removed my clothes and lay me down on the bed for my massage. With his strong hands he started with my shoulders and back and eventually worked his way down my arms and legs. I concentrated on the sheer pleasure of the experience. Though ten minutes earlier sex was the furthest thing from my mind, feeling Beau’s hands on my naked body awoke something in me, and before long I felt a strong rush of desire. It was more than just physical. Mentally, I craved a kind of raw, intense connection with Beau. I eased onto my back and reached for him.

“You sure?” he asked in the darkness.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s almost a medical emergency.”

I awoke the next day at eight thirty to clinking and clanging sounds emanating from my kitchen, and when I padded out there, I found Beau making scrambled eggs. Over breakfast he asked what my next move would be as far as the case was concerned. I had thought about that as I was falling asleep the night before, and I realized I was stalled for the time being. I was anxious to look into the abortion theory as best as I could, but I wouldn’t be able to until Monday.

Beau suggested we spend a quiet day together. Still no follow-up on our “commitment” discussion, but I realized that because of what I’d been through, he wasn’t putting any pressure on me. We read the paper, ordered in lunch, and then took a long walk around the Village and a windy Washington Square Park. Every few moments, I found myself glancing over my shoulder. Despite the weather, people sat crouched over some of the chess tables or perched on the edge of the fountain. The killer had come after me twice, and I couldn’t help but worry there might be yet another attempt. After an early dinner on MacDougal Street, we headed back to my place, where Beau once again stayed the night.

We were both up early the next morning. Beau had meetings all day and said he might be hard to reach, but made me swear I’d leave messages letting him know whenever I went out. After he left, I cooled my heels for a while, and then, as soon as it was nine o’clock, I phoned the upstate coroner’s office. A secretary or receptionist answered, with a level of excitement in her voice that made me suspect I’d caught her in the midst of tabbing file folders.

“Good morning,” I said, “this is Belinda Hogan from the New York City Police press office. I’d like to talk to someone there about the Devon Barr autopsy. Who’s the best person?”

“That would be Hank—Hank Cleary,” the woman said. “But he’s not—oh wait, he’s back. I’ll put you through.”

“What can I do for you?” Cleary asked after I’d reintroduced myself. He was pleasant enough, but there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

“I wanted to pass along some information that I thought you should be aware of.”

“
Okay
,” he said, sounding wary now. “Shoot.”

“As you might expect, we’ve received a ton of calls down here from press snooping around. Mostly they’ve been interested in the anorexia angle. But late on Friday a reporter called and inquired if it was true that Devon Bar had had an abortion. I was surprised somebody on the outside would know that.”

That was a little trick I’d learned from an old reporter I’d once worked with. Sometimes statements worked better than questions when you were talking to people who were supposed to protect information.

“What are you suggesting exactly?” Cleary said.

“That you may have some loose lips up there. I’m not saying anyone leaked it to the press. Someone may have told a friend or family member, and then it got passed on from there. And it may have come from someplace else entirely—like her doctor’s office. But I thought you should be aware.”

“Well, I’m positive no one from this office blabbed it,” he said defensively. “We may not be city folks, but we know enough to keep our mouths shut on a confidential matter like that.”

Bingo. It sounded, at least, as if I’d been right—Devon had had an abortion. It fit with the spoiled, willful Devon I’d known briefly. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it.

Next question to try to answer: Had Whitney learned of it somehow? I thought suddenly of something that Cap had said to me when I’d questioned him about his conversation in the woods with Devon. He’d told me he’d comforted Devon about losing the baby and mentioned to her that Whitney had spoken to the gynecologist. But still, this wasn’t leading anyplace.

I took a shower next, hoping that the warm water would not only soothe my still-aching muscles but help clear my head. I sensed that there was a thought just out of reach, pestering me the way a pebble in your shoe does—at first not so much, but after a while, to greater and greater distraction. As I was toweling off, I heard my phone ring. To my relief, it turned out to be Collinson.

“I’ve spoken to the troopers in Pennsylvania,” he said, “but I want to hear it from you.”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s why I left you the message. Did you not get it?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

I told him the story but didn’t whisper a word about the two suspects in my mind. It seemed unfair to throw them under the bus until I dug up more information.

“We’re going to be working with several different law enforcement agencies and giving this our full attention,” he said. “And I want you to butt out, Ms. Weggins. I appreciate your insights, but this is a police matter.”

“I hear you,” I said. That was my way of making it sound like I was taking his order while I really wasn’t.

The phone rang again as soon as I had disconnected the call. Jeez, I thought, was he checking to make sure that his lecture had sunk in? But it wasn’t Collinson. I froze as someone with a slight Texas twang said my name.

“Hello, Whitney,” I said in reply.

“Have you got a moment to talk?” she asked. So much sweeter-sounding than the last time we’d spoken, but a warning siren was already going off in my brain.

“Sure,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “The last time we met, you didn’t seem to enjoy talking to me.”

“I know I seemed impatient that day, but I hope you understood what an awkward position you’d put Cap and me in. However, there—there’s something you need to know the truth about.”

“About Cap?” I asked, more than curious where she was headed.

“No, not about Cap, for goodness sake. Why do you keep insisting that this is all about Cap? I need to talk to you about
Christian
.”

Christian. Was there really something there? Or was she purposely leading me astray?

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

“It needs to be discussed in private—I don’t want to get into it on my cell phone. Can you come by my apartment again?”

The siren sound in my head was nearly deafening now. I wanted to hear what she had to say, but I couldn’t take any chances.

“Uh—,” I said, unsure of what to suggest. Should I invite her to my place? Or some kind of neutral ground—preferably with professional snipers posted nearby. “I have a pretty busy day ahead. Would it be possible for you to come downtown to my neck of the woods?”

“I wish I could,” she said. “But I have two women here testing recipes all day for my cookbook. I don’t want to leave them alone in the apartment.”

Clearly, I told myself, if she
were
the killer, she wouldn’t pull anything in front of two recipe testers. It was hard to imagine her chasing me around the kitchen with a butcher knife while her helpers whipped up a platter of pralines.

“All right,” I told her. “When?”

She said in an hour. I used the time to think through the best strategy to use. Keep it neutral, I told myself. Listen, watch. Don’t provoke. And make sure the minute I walk in that there are definitely others in the apartment.

I chose a cab over the subway to save time but ended up stalled in Christmas shopping gridlock by Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street. I felt flustered and anxious by the time I finally entered the Darby’s huge apartment building. I gave my name, and the concierge called upstairs for clearance.

“Mrs. Darby says to go right up,” the concierge announced, beaming. He’d obviously detected no homicidal tendencies with Whitney.

When she opened the door, Whitney had on the same kind of let’s-do-brunch outfit she’d been wearing when I’d been at her apartment before—drapy beige slacks; soft cream-colored blouse; big gold earrings. It looked as if she’d just come in from running an errand because a short, fur-lined jacket lay on one of the straight-backed chairs in the hallway and a brown hobo-style bag was nestled on the table with all the silver-framed photos of her and Cap.