So Pretty It Hurts bwm-6

by Kate White

  Gosh, where did this girl get her information?

  “I hear Devon actually introduced you to Tommy,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  “That’s kind of interesting, isn’t it? A lot of girls wouldn’t feel comfortable seeing their ex-boyfriend with a friend.”

  “She said she didn’t care. I mean, she was kind of upset when they broke up, but she said she got over it.”

  “What kind of time was she having this weekend? Whenever I saw her, she seemed to be a bit on edge.”

  “I dunno. I didn’t actually talk to her all that much. Plus, it was hard sometimes to know what she was really thinking. She liked to keep things to herself.”

  “Did you notice how thin she was—and how little she ate?”

  “That’s our job—to be thin.”

  “But there’s thin and there’s thin. Do you think she was suffering from an eating disorder?”

  Tory shook her head back and forth, lifting the shiny black layers of her hair.

  “People always say stuff like that about models,” she said after a moment. “I think most of the time they’re just jealous.”

  “Did you happen to see a bottle of ipecac syrup in her bathroom? That’s something people use to induce vomiting.”

  “I never went in Devon’s room the entire weekend. I was too busy in mine—if you know what I mean.”

  She stood up, leaving her plate on the table, clearly done with the conversation.

  For the next hour or so we all just sat around, bunched fairly close together as if we were on a lifeboat in the Atlantic. The lack of electricity meant no music and no coffee machine, though Sandy put out stuff for tea because the stove ran on gas. The two wood-burning stoves in the great room provided some heat, but the room could hardly have been described as toasty warm.

  After a while Scott suggested poker, but only he, Tommy, and Richard played. Whitney pulled her yarn and knitting needles out of a bag and started clicking again. The rest of us leafed through books and magazines by candlelight and picked at the remains of our dinner. We ran through several bottles of wine, about 50 percent of which was consumed by Richard.

  At around nine thirty, Ralph showed up with an update. The power was out all over the area, and it would probably be out through part of the next day. According to the most recent weather report, the temperature would rise again in the morning, and he was pretty sure he could have the road in shape sometime before noon. He and Sandy had rounded up more flashlights, and he distributed one to each of us and then deposited several on top of the big island.

  “We’ve got plenty of candles, too,” he said gruffly, “but we’d appreciate it if you rely mostly on the flashlights. The last thing we need right now is a fire.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to heading back to my room, but after Ralph left, people started to drift away, the beams from their flashlights bobbing spookily as they descended the stairs. There seemed to be no point in hanging around. Jessie barely made eye contact with Scott when we said good night and then practically attached herself to my hip. I took a glass of wine with me.

  “If it weren’t for Mr. Kinky Pants, I would have stayed over there for hours,” Jessie whispered as we reached our rooms. “I dread the idea of being back in my room alone.”

  I smiled woefully, in total sympathy with how she was feeling.

  “I really don’t believe anyone will try to get into our rooms tonight,” I said, “but just to be on the safe side, why don’t you pull a chair or table in front of your door? Or if you really want, you can bunk down with me.”

  “You don’t know how close I am to saying yes to your offer. But if Scott found out tomorrow that we’d shared a room, he’d end up walking around with a boner until we left.”

  I smiled. “Just knock on my door if you get scared, okay?”

  Once in my room, I took my own advice and dragged an end table over the floor and lodged it against the door. The gas fueled wood-burning stove had been lit and was giving off decent heat. Despite Ralph’s warning, I lit the scented candle from the bathroom, placed it on the table by the armchair, and then collapsed, my legs tucked underneath me and BlackBerry in hand. I tried Beau again, with the little bit of power I still had in my phone. Never expecting a power outage, I hadn’t bothered to charge it earlier. Once again, I reached only Beau’s voice mail.

  “Hey,” I said. “Not sure when your plane is due. Call me, will you? Some crazy stuff has happened up here, and I would love to talk to you.”

  I started to press disconnect but instead gave him a brief description of Devon’s death and how we’d been held hostage by the storm.

  The flames from the candle and the wood-burning stove created phantomlike shadows that danced on the walls. I sipped my wine, trying to sort through everything that was jostling around in my brain. I was so immersed in my thoughts that I almost didn’t hear the sound of someone knocking on my bedroom door. Jessie, I thought. She had obviously decided not to tough it out.

  Holding the candle, I crossed the room and pulled the table away from the door. I opened it just a hair. Surprise, surprise. Jane was standing there, flashlight in hand. Her mass of dark hair was pinned to the top of her head and she was wearing a pink sweatshirt.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked without sounding as if she cared.

  “Nope.”

  “Mind if I come in? I want to talk to you.”

  “Sure,” I said as she followed me into the room with a curious glance toward the table I’d used as a barricade.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude earlier,” she said. “This hasn’t been a breeze for me, as you might imagine.”

  “Devon’s death—or working for her?”

  “Both.”

  She’d lowered the flashlight, and was illuminated only by the light of the candle. Her dark brown eyes were hollows in her large face.

  “So what’s on your mind?” I asked.

  “I Googled you during the day, and I was pretty surprised by what I saw.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re a really respected crime reporter, aren’t you? You don’t write all that crap about who’s screwing who or who gave the paparazzi a beaver shot while getting out of the car.”

  “No, I don’t write that stuff,” I said. What was she up to? I wondered. An ornery bear like Jane didn’t start acting all nicey-nice without a damn good reason.

  “You think Devon’s death is going to be a big story?” she asked. “I mean, will it be all over the news for days and days?”

  “That’s going to depend a lot on what the autopsy reveals,” I said. “If it turns out that Devon died from complications from an eating disorder, it will make the cover of all the tabloids this week and then there’ll be some follow-up the next week about which rock stars showed at her funeral. And I assume the morning shows will all do segments on bulimia and anorexia. But then it will probably quiet down—except for maybe one long piece by someone like Richard in Vanity Fair. Why—are you worried about how the media circus will impact you?”

  “Yeah—I mean, of course. But I don’t understand why you think the story will die so quickly. Remember Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t her story go on and on for weeks?”

  “Yeah, but that’s because there were all those crazy layers—like who was the baby’s father. When details keep unfolding each week, then the press stays on a story.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “If Devon had been dating anyone hot right now, that would provide a little extra drama, but as you pointed out, she was single at the moment.” I paused, watching Jane bite her chubby lower lip in the candlelight. “Right?”

  “Ummm, I guess.”

  “If there’s something you want to talk about and it’s pressworthy, I promise not to attribute it to you in any way.”

  “There is something, actually,” she said. She looked off in this exaggerated way, as if she was trying to make up her mind to tell me, but I sensed it was for show, that she’d come
to my room for just this purpose. “I didn’t say anything to the police about it—because it clearly doesn’t have anything to do with Devon’s death—but I feel I should tell someone. I mean, it just seems wrong not to. And since you’re interested in the facts, and not just idle gossip—”

  Spit it out! I wanted to shout, but I knew better than to pounce.

  “I’m happy to listen,” I said, “but only if you feel like sharing.”

  She turned her eyes back toward me.

  “It’s Cap,” she said. “There was something going on between him and Devon.”

  I’d had my suspicions, of course, but the news gave me a little jolt. And it certainly shed fresh light on the words I’d overheard Cap say on the deck. Devon’s “You’d better tell her” comment must have referred to Whitney after all.

  “A little fling—or more like a full-blown affair?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, since I only realized this weekend that something was definitely up with them. I always thought there might be something, but I never had any evidence. Then yesterday, I spotted them kissing in the woods.”

  “Do you remember what time?” I asked. I wondered how this particular incident connected to the crying jag of Devon’s that I’d witnessed near the outbuildings.

  “Umm, not long after breakfast, I’d say. I didn’t want to do the whole hiking thing, but Scott said there was a pretty stream down an easy path and I decided to go wander down there. I didn’t even know Devon had left her room—the last I’d seen her, she was drinking her stupid green tea in bed. But there she was in this major lip lock with Cap. I didn’t want them to see me, so I snuck out of there and hightailed it back to the barn.”

  So then what had Devon been crying about? Her tears hadn’t seemed like the kind you shed when you are hopelessly in love with a man who might not leave his wife. She had said, “Someone knows something.” Had she been afraid Whitney had learned the truth?

  “I appreciate your telling me this,” I said. “If there is any reason that it belongs in the story, and I decide to use it, I won’t mention your name. Can I get your cell number, just in case I need to reach you?”

  “Sure,” she said. She dictated it as I typed it into my BlackBerry. “I appreciate your listening. There’s something creepy about her manager becoming involved with her like that. Don’t they have a name for that—a Svengali complex or something?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “I better get going. I don’t like being out of my room with all the lights out—and Devon’s body lying down there.”

  I let her out and watched her tentatively make her way back down the corridor.

  The wick of my candle was starting to sputter, in danger of being suffocated by a pool of hot melted wax. I quickly undressed, blew out the flame and crawled into bed. The room was pitch-black. As I lay on my back, praying for the sheets to warm, I mulled over Jane’s revelation about Cap. If it turned out someone had actually killed Devon—though I had no clue how—that meant that both Cap and Whitney were suspects. Sexual jealousy was one of the biggest motivators of homicide. I felt particularly curious about why Jane had spilled the beans. Jane hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Devon, and it was hard to believe the “I feel I should tell someone” motive.

  I could sense I wasn’t going to fall asleep easily. I scooted back up in bed, and for the next hour or so, I read by the beam of the flashlight. Finally, with my eyes growing weary, I switched off the flashlight and wriggled down under the covers.

  Earlier it had seemed so deadly quiet in my room, but now I began to pick up little noises: the fire crackling in the stove; the wind rattling the window; the ice snapping on the trees outside. Eventually, I felt my body sag into the mattress, and sleep overtook me.

  And then something was stirring me. I had no clue what it was, but my heart had begun to beat faster. I raised myself up in bed and cocked my head, straining to hear. The noise was coming from the hallway. Footsteps. Was it Jessie? I wondered.

  Then there was another noise: the sound of something scratching on wood farther down the hall. I leaned forward in bed as my heart gathered speed. The scratching sound happened again. It was to the left of my room, near the door to Jessie’s room. What in the world was going on? I wondered. And then the scratching was happening right outside my room. Someone was running an object back and forth across my door. It sounded as if the thing was made of metal, like a coat hanger but thicker. With a gasp I realized it could be a knife.

  “Who’s there?” I called out. I grabbed the flashlight, fumbled for the switch, and then bounded out of bed toward the small entranceway. Instinctively I leaned hard against the table, making sure the person couldn’t push open the door if he had a key. “Who’s there?” I called again.

  There was another rapid scratching noise—a couple of strokes, like Zorro making the sign of the Z. Next I heard retreating footsteps and the sound of someone tripping down the stairs.

  I ran back toward the phone to call extension seven but remembered the line was dead. I had absolutely no desire to bolt out into the hall, but I had to figure out what was going on—and to alert Scott. While I slid my feet hurriedly into a pair of ballet flats, I heard Jessie pound on the wall between our two rooms. After dragging the table away from the door, I peered outside. No one was there. I scurried down the hall and tapped on Jessie’s door, announcing it was me. In the beam from the flashlight I saw four or five large scratch marks carved in the wood of her door. I aimed the flashlight back toward my own door. There were ugly scratch marks there, too.

  “What the hell is happening?” Jessie asked as she opened the door. She looked terrified.

  “I don’t know. You’ve got Scott’s cell phone number?”

  “Yeah—why?”

  “See if you can wake him. At the same time, I’ll head over to his room.”

  “Be careful, okay?” she pleaded.

  Hurrying toward the stairs, I trained the beam of my flashlight raggedly over every corner of the landing, making sure no one was hiding in the darkness. On the ground floor I could see scratch marks on two guest room doors. Richard, Christian, Cap and Whitney, and Tommy and Tory were all on this floor, but I had no idea whose room was which. Was one of them the culprit? Had the person already snuck back into his room?

  I pivoted and made my way to the entrance of the glass passageway. Once inside, I saw that I almost didn’t need my flashlight; the piles of snow outside partially illuminated the passage. Grabbing a breath, I picked up speed. Once I thought I heard someone behind me and spun around nervously. No one was there. The sound, I told myself, must have come from the glass being shaken by the wind.

  I reached the other barn and pushed the door open. Just as I stepped inside, the freaking light of my flashlight died. I shook the torch a couple of times and the light came back on, but it seemed dimmer now.

  I trained the stream of light toward Scott’s door and made my way in that direction. I knocked several times, and when that produced no results, I banged and called out his name. Nothing. Where was he? I wondered anxiously.

  Then I heard a noise to my right. I turned and aimed the feeble beam of my light there. The main door of the barn, the one that went outside, was shuddering a little from the wind, and I could see that it hadn’t been shut tightly. It looked as if someone might have hurried outside and left it ajar.

  Oh, fun, I thought. I’m gonna have to investigate out there. But, I realized, that might be exactly where Scott had gone—to check outside. I strode to the door, heart in mouth, and pulled it open.

  Because of the snow I could see a little better outside than in, though that wasn’t saying much. The surrounding woods seemed so big and ominous, ready to engulf the barn. But there were no humans in sight.

  “Scott!” I called out several times. He might, I realized, have hightailed it down to Ralph’s. There was no reply, just the sounds of trees crackling. I glanced down. There seemed to be fresh boot prints in the ice-cru
sted snow, but as far as I knew, they could have been made hours ago.

  I stepped back inside and closed the door, wondering what I should do. The best course might be for me to head down to Ralph’s cabin. A big knot of fear had started to form in my tummy. To make matters worse, my flashlight suddenly sputtered—and then died for good.

  “Fuck,” I said out loud.

  I remembered that earlier Ralph had dumped extra flashlights on the island upstairs, and if I were in luck, one would still be there. Cautiously I made my way toward where I knew the stairs were and felt in the darkness for the wooden handrail. I found it after a few clumsy attempts and began the climb to the second level. Once upstairs, I took a moment to orient myself, trying to use my sense memory. I moved toward the area where I was sure the island was and finally bumped into it. I patted my hand over the entire surface, but there were no flashlights on top.

  The smartest move at this point, I realized, was to return to Jessie’s room, borrow her flashlight, and head for the cabin from the door of the smaller barn. I took cautious baby steps toward the landing. Just as I’d placed my foot on the stairs, I heard a sound and froze. Somewhere behind me in the blackness of the great room, something had just moved. Oh, man, I thought, please don’t let this be happening.

  “Who’s there?” I called out, weakly. My legs felt as limp as shoelaces.

  Suddenly I heard a whoosh of air as someone rushed up behind me. I caught a whiff of rancid sweat at the same moment that I heard a swishing sound, like the movement of fabric. And then, while passing me, the person shoved against the right side of my body, pitching me forward. Instinctively my hand flew out in search of the rail, but it was too late. I was being propelled down the stairs, headfirst.

  Chapter 8

  With each roll of my body, the same thought kept shooting through my brain: Please don’t let my neck snap in two. Though I tried to grab on to something, all I could reach was air or the edge of each stair step, and neither was any help. Suddenly my head thwacked hard against something—maybe the base of the banister—and my hand slammed into the ground floor. I stopped rolling. I lay on the ground, eyes closed. A million little lights pulsed in my brain.