So Pretty It Hurts (4 page)

“Where have they
gotten
us?” Whitney exclaimed. “You just have to look around to see that what good there
is
in the world comes from the actions of people with values—fighting famine and poverty, eradicating disease. Protecting children.”

“In the name of the Lord, you mean?” he asked.

“Sometimes. And with the Lord’s guidance, too.”

“I’ll pose a question Christopher Hitchens asked. If Jesus could heal a blind person he happened to meet, then why not heal blindness?”

She smiled smugly.

“I don’t pretend to know how God works,” she said. “None of us can. We just have to vow to do the right thing.”

“Ah, I see,” he said. “But don’t you find that the ones who jabber on the most about doing the right thing so often don’t?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, her back rigid.

“The Christian right. Just take a look at all these right-wing preachers and politicians. They’re always pontificating about values, and yet half of them lie down with whores and the other half with young boys.”

Whitney caught her breath in surprise, as if he’d just called
her
a hooker, but then she let it out slowly, clearly willing herself not to get steamed.

“How did you get
your
start, Richard?” I asked, hoping to chase him off the topic. Though he was clearly in the mood to be provocative, the temptation to talk about himself overrode it. Through a main course of roast chicken, new potatoes, and haricots vert, we heard about the Fleet Street years, the magazine years, and then coming to America. With each anecdote, his tongue loosened even more, until his words were slurred. Whitney listened and even asked a perfunctory question or two, but she could barely disguise her disgust for the man. He seemed to sense that and actually relish it.

At one point in the middle of all this I caught Jessie’s eye, and she flashed me a mischievous look. It was obvious from Scott’s body language that he had the hots for Jessie, who was seated next to him, but he did a decent job of including Jane, on the other side, in the conversation. Speaking of hots, you could almost see the smoke rising from below the table where Devon and Tommy were sitting side by side. She was smirking sexily at everything he said, and he was lapping it up. So did this mean she wasn’t involved with Cap? Or was she flirting balls to the wall to make Cap jealous?

As Richard droned on, I tried to study Devon out of the corner of my eye. Though she often had a fork in her food, it became clear after a minute that she was just using it to rearrange things on her plate. I also realized after a moment that though Tory was pretending to listen to Cap, her eyes kept shooting over toward the pair of dirty flirters.

“I’ve got an idea,” Scott announced suddenly, just as Sandy and one of the young helpers, a redheaded girl in her twenties, were clearing the plates. “Sandy’s made us a fantastic apple pie, and I think we should indulge in it while listening to some awesome music by someone who’s on the brink of becoming a major recording star.”

“How could we argue with that?” Cap said.

Scott rose from his chair, took his iPhone from the pocket of his jacket, and docked it in a nearby iPod speaker. A few seconds later the room was filled with the haunting sound of a woman singing a song with the refrain, “You’ll break my heart a second time.” It was part ballad, part pop song, with a splash of country. I knew it was Devon Barr singing, but it was hard to reconcile the voice with the creature at the table. Everyone just sat there spellbound. When I glanced down a minute later and saw a wedge of apple pie, I realized I’d been so absorbed I hadn’t noticed anyone slide it in front of me.

“That’s absolutely sensational,” Cap said when the track was over.

“Isn’t it?” Scott said. “Devon Barr is going to be huge.”

An awkward silence followed. I was about to ask the release date when Tommy tilted his chair back, a signal, it seemed, that he was about to make a pronouncement.

“Well, well,” he declared. “You were holding out on me, Devon. I had no fucking clue you could sing like that.”

She looked at him slyly.

“I—I thought you didn’t like ballads,” she said. Her words had sounded just a little slurred, which surprised me. I hadn’t seen her drink anything but water before dinner, and her wineglass was nearly full.

“I believe I’ve just changed my mind. Of course, I do need to know who you wrote the song about.”

Devon stared at him intensely. “You’ll have to guess—like everyone else,” she said teasingly. “But what a nice surprise you like it.”

People shifted in their seats collectively, and I half expected someone at the table to shout, “Get a room!” I wondered what Tory was thinking. Turns out I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Nice
surprise
?” Tory shouted, her voice shrill with sarcasm. She was just a few feet to my right, and her outburst startled me so much, I nearly jumped. “It’s no fucking surprise at all. It’s why you invited us, isn’t it?”

The whole table just sat there in stunned silence. Devon didn’t answer but stared at Tory, the famous mouth pursed and her eyes squinted, as if she had no idea what Tory could
possibly
mean.

“You wanted Scott to play your stupid ballad in front of me and Tommy,” Tory said, “so I’d have to sit here watching him get a woody as he listened to it.”

Ahhh, I’d
wondered
if things might come to a boil this weekend.

“I’m sure Tommy’s just being complimentary,” Scott said. “There’s nothing to get excited about.”

“It’s none of your fat business,” Tory snapped. “You want to fuck her, too, I bet.”

“Oh, please, Tory, that’s enough,” Tommy shouted from across the table. “Stop being so freaking obsessed and eat your pie.”

“Why don’t you stick it in your pie
hole
,” she said. She picked up the cobalt blue goblet in front of her and tossed the remains of her sparkling water at Tommy from across the table—though most of it ended up splashing on Whitney. As Richard watched the water trickle down Whitney’s cleavage, Tory stormed off, digging the heels of her boots hard into the bare wood floor.

Sandy moved toward the table decisively, a large rag in hand, and simultaneously Scott passed Whitney his own napkin for her to dab the water off. Then he turned back to the rest of the table, where we all sat speechless.

“Well,” he said, looking like a guy who’d seen far worse and wasn’t going to be thrown off his game by a minor hissy fit, “who would like to join me for a few hands of poker?”

“I’m in,” Richard said, his voice liquidy. Several other people volunteered as well.

“Not me,” Devon said, pushing back her chair. “I’m—I’m going to bed.” I realized suddenly that she was tipsy, and as she stood up at the table, she wobbled a bit. At her body weight, I guessed, even a couple of sips of wine could leave one blotto. “Jane, lez go.”

“I’m not ready, actually,” Jane announced bluntly. She looked self-satisfied, as if she’d been waiting all night for a moment to assert her independence.

“I don’t care. You gotta come.”

“Sorry, this is one mess you’ll have to take care of yourself,” Jane said.

Devon scowled halfheartedly and moved toward the stairs, swaying slightly with each step.

“Devon, let me help you,” Cap called after her. He started to jump from the table.

“No,” she called out over her shoulder. “Don’t need you.”

Whitney rested her hand on Cap’s arm. “Honey, let her be. She clearly wants some time alone.”

After a couple of awkward moments, people began to rise from the table and take positions around the room. For the next hour or so everyone played cards or pool—except Whitney, who sat tightly next to Cap and seemed to be lost in thought. Despite Scott’s attempts to keep things jovial, the party never regained the festive mood from earlier. At about eleven Tommy threw down his cards and said he was calling it quits for the night. I couldn’t help but wonder what might get tossed at
him
when he opened his bedroom door. Soon afterward, I said good night, not wanting to be the last to leave, and discreetly winked at Jessie.

Heading back through the passageway, I saw that the snow was coming down hard now—and that there was close to a foot on the ground already. I didn’t like the look of it. Getting out to the main road tomorrow wasn’t going to be easy even with the long driveway plowed.

As I dressed for bed, I couldn’t help but think of Beau. If I hadn’t let my annoyance get the better of me, I would have been snuggled up in bed with him in Manhattan right now, instead of being nearly snowbound in a barn with a bunch of totally wacky houseguests who liked to get sloshed or stoned, expose their boobs, and hurl drinks across the table.

Had I totally overreacted about the Sedona trip? I wondered. I knew part of the reason it bugged me so much was that it raised the ghost of the trip Beau had taken to Turkey last summer, not long after I first set eyes on him. I didn’t like anything at all about
that
trip.

Beau and I had first met in the
Buzz
office building, on one of the corporate floors. I’d gone up there to talk to someone, and Beau was meeting with the head dude, Tom Dicker, to discuss a documentary film project. When I spotted him across the reception room, it was like being hit by a lightning bolt, and not long after we were having this crazy fling.

He’d been very clear from the start. He was looking for fun, not a relationship—in part because he wasn’t ready and in part because he was heading off to Turkey soon to make a documentary there. I was fine with the fling part for a while, but as I found myself falling hard, I told Beau I needed to break it off. To my surprise he said that he was pretty smitten and asked if I’d give him a chance to mull it over when he was in Turkey. He promised to stay in touch.

But then all I got was one lousy postcard. I gave up after a while, feeling more than sorry about the loss, and became involved with a young actor named Chris Wickersham. I never expected to see Beau again. But after he returned in September, he let me know that he’d fallen for me and wanted to make a full commitment. He sounded genuine, and things had overall been good with us since. Except that I couldn’t unload my doubts. Like I’d told Jessie, I had the sense he’d talked himself into a commitment because he didn’t want to give me up.

I grabbed my BlackBerry from my purse and checked to see if I’d missed a call or text from Beau. I hadn’t. I called his cell, knowing it was still early in Sedona. All I got was voice mail. I left a message telling him I was going to bed but would talk to him tomorrow after his flight landed. I wished him a good trip. There, I thought. I can be a big girl.

I fell asleep pretty easily, exhausted from the group psycho-dynamics of the evening. And then all of a sudden I was awake again and wasn’t sure why. I squinted at my watch: 2:47. The wind was howling fiercely outside my bedroom window, and I guessed that the noise must have woken me. But as I lay quietly listening I heard a sound that wasn’t the wind. Someone, somewhere was wailing.

Maybe it’s just Tommy and Tory having makeup sex, I told myself, but a second later I heard it again—a cross between a wail and a moan, and it was louder now and desperate sounding. I took a deep breath, threw off the covers, and projected myself out of bed. Cautiously I opened the bedroom door a crack. I couldn’t see anything but I heard someone—a woman, I thought—moan again off to the left. I opened the door wider and peered along the corridor.

A complete stranger, a female, was standing in front of the room across and down a bit from Jessie’s. The door to the room was open, and the woman was leaning against the door frame, looking pale and disoriented. She was dressed incongruously in a parka, a flannel nightgown, and a pair of snow boots. Just as I was about to ask where in the world she’d come from, I realized it was one of the two girls who’d assisted Sandy at dinner. Her long curly red hair, which had been pinned into a tight bun earlier, now flew in long strands from her head like wind socks. It occurred to me that she’d probably been marooned here because of the snow and had been given the room to stay in.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, taking a few steps closer to her. “Are you sick?”

“She won’t wake up,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Who?” I asked. “Who won’t wake up?” It felt as if I was in some crazy dream sequence, and for a split second I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

“Devon Barr,” she said plaintively. “I keep trying to wake her, but she just lies there in bed. Her eyes are open but she won’t say anything.”

Chapter 4

“B
ut—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.