by Kate White
There were other possibilities. Jane clearly hated Devon. And she knew she might have an eating disorder. I couldn’t dismiss Tommy either. Devon had toyed with him. He’d made that comment to me about her being a tease. Maybe she’d jerked him around one too many times.
As for the others present that weekend, none seemed to have any obvious motive for pushing Devon over the edge, but that didn’t mean that they lacked one. For the moment, though, I was going to concentrate on Cap and Whitney—because that’s where the most likely motives lay.
I thought suddenly of Devon’s pregnancy. She’d conceived a little over a year ago. I wondered if the supposed affair between Devon and Cap had been going on for at least that long—and if the baby was his. “You’ve got to tell her” might have actually referred to the pregnancy. Devon may have been urging Cap to come clean about their situation for months and had finally reached the point of being seriously pissed off with her lazy-butt lover.
After finding a number for Cap’s agency through 411, I called his office. The girl who answered exuded the kind of confidence you can only possess if you are twenty-two, wear designer shoes, and have never paid for a drink in your entire life. I gave my name and asked if Cap was free to speak to me.
“Mr. Darby isn’t available,” she said, suggesting with her tone of utter disinterest that as far as I was concerned, he would never ever be available.
“Just put me through to his voice mail then,” I said.
“He doesn’t use voice mail,” she replied. She said it with distaste and disbelief at my suggestion, as if I’d just urged her to check out the new winter shoe shipment at Payless.
“Then please tell him to call me,” I said. “It involves Devon Barr and is extremely important.” I’d added some haughtiness to my tone, thinking that might catch her interest.
Now it was time for a little background research on Cap and Whitney. An Internet search was hardly going to tell me if either of them had the potential to be a devious murderer, but certain details about their pasts might hint at character, temperament, and needs.
I started with Cap. I couldn’t find a whole lot, but his name turned up in a few places and I found one short profile of him in a trade magazine. He had practiced law for a few years and then worked his way into managing talent. His clients included some actors but mostly models. Devon, as Richard had suggested, seemed to be the biggest star he managed, and her death would certainly be a blow to his income. If he was the one who had murdered her, he would have known he’d be killing the goose that laid the golden egg.
There wasn’t much about his personal life, but I learned that his marriage to Whitney was his second. He’d met her just over four years ago, two years after divorcing, and married her within a year. He had no children from either this marriage or the first.
When it came time to check out Whitney, I started with her own Web site. Scott had introduced her as Whitney Darby, but over the weekend I’d learned that professionally at least she used her maiden name—Lee. The bio on the site described Whitney Lee as a motivational speaker, cookbook author (though the book Elegant Texas Food wasn’t slated to be released until next fall), and a media star, which seemed a stretch considering she hadn’t had a regular job in TV since she left the Dallas/Fort Worth market. Her three-year stint at the television station—where she’d covered food and health and won two local Emmys—was described in the kind of glowing terms you’d reserve for someone like Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters.
Now it was time to dig for info that hadn’t been sugarcoated by Whitney herself. But there wasn’t a ton to be found. Not surprisingly, the station’s Web site had nothing on her anymore, and there were no recent profiles of her. What I did find were pictures. She and Cap apparently relished being seen at major social events, and she liked to dress up, showing off her jewels and, as Richard had suggested, that proud bosom of hers. She’d been shot a fair amount by society photographers like Patrick McMullan.
I found the number for her former TV station on their Web site, and after calling it, asked for the PR department. I told the person who answered that I was a writer doing a profile of Cap Darby and his lovely wife Whitney Lee and just wanted to verify a few facts. It was sort of true. And it wasn’t like I was going around impersonating Johnny Depp’s personal assistant just so I could snare a better table at a restaurant.
The woman who answered drew a complete blank at the mention of Whitney’s name.
“But that doesn’t mean anything,” she explained in a thick Texas accent. “I’ve only been here nine months. Let me connect you to my associate, Skyler McKenzie. She should know. She’s been here six or seven years.”
“Which magazine?” Skyler asked after I’d done my spiel again.
“Gloss,” I lied. It was actually a double lie because not only did I no longer work there but they’d never have done a piece on a hope-to-be-famous-if-my-book-ever-sells type like Whitney.
“Whitney was a reporter here for several years. If you want the exact dates, you’ll have to speak to our HR department instead.”
You never wanted to be banished to HR when you were writing a story. They were the Gobi Desert of information because, fearful of lawsuits, they refused to cough up a freaking thing.
“Oh, I have the dates, so that won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’d just love to include a few highlights of her career, and I thought your office would be best for that. I know she covered mostly food and health. Is that correct?”
I didn’t really give a rat’s ass about the highlights of Whitney’s career, but I wanted to work my way into a conversation about the woman, hoping to score a few juicy details. I heard the rhythmic clicking sound of Skyler’s nails on computer keys as she pulled up info, but I had sensed from her tone that she might have known Whitney personally.
“Yes, that’s right. Food, entertainment. And health stories during her last year.”
“Any examples? It would be great to have a few for my story.”
“Lots of restaurant openings. A segment on which area church served the best flapjacks at their Sunday breakfast. As for health, well, let’s see. There were stories on back pain . . . Botox injections—and a two-parter on allergies.”
She’d listed everything in a fairly deadpan tone, but there was a soupçon of sarcasm when she added the title of the allergy series: The Mite That Roared. I had the feeling Skyler hadn’t been a fan of Whitney’s.
“I know that Whitney won two Emmys. Can you tell me what those were for?”
“Those would be local Emmys, you realize?”
Eww, she really hadn’t liked Whitney, had she?
“Of course. But I’d still like to know what they were for.”
There was a pause as, I assumed, she was scrolling down her computer screen.
“One was for the series on allergies,” she said. “And the other? Umm, okay here it is. She did a two-part series on eating disorders.”
My jaw fell open in total surprise. I couldn’t even find words to respond.
“You know, like anorexia—and bulimia,” she said, as if I might be confused about what she was referring to.
“Yes, sorry. I was just considering what you said. Do you know if that was a topic of special interest to her?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.” I heard papers rustle on her desk—she was growing itchy to end the call.
“Would you be able to send me a link to the eating disorder series?” I asked.
“That’s going to involve some effort,” she said.
“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, but it will help me add a nice splash of color to the story.” Jeez, I was sounding like Martha Stewart.
After sighing audibly, Skyler promised to email me the link when she could.
I tried Cap’s office again, and this time I matched his assistant snip for snip. “I really need to speak with Mr. Darby,” I told her. “Tell him that critical information about Devon’s death has come into my possession.
”
That, I thought, ought to inspire a response. And it did. Ten minutes later Cap returned the call.
“If you’re calling to tell me about how Devon died, I already know. I’ve been in touch with the police today.”
“No, it’s something else. Something very important—and very private.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“I’d prefer not to discuss it on the phone. Can you meet me in person?”
“Why so cloak-and-dagger? What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.”
“I’m meeting an associate for lunch on West Fifty-fifth Street. I’ll arrive early—at noon—and you can meet me there.” He gave me the name of the restaurant, not bothering with good-bye.
Worried about being late, I ended up at the restaurant ten minutes before Cap was slated to show. It was a small Italian place with mango-colored walls, just below street level. It was the kind of restaurant you saw in old movies about Manhattan. I wondered if he’d picked it for his lunch because he’d be under the radar with his guest compared to places like Michael’s and The Four Seasons.
Rather than sit at one of the tables, I slid onto a stool at the small bar and ordered a sparkling water. There weren’t any diners yet, and waiters moved silently about the room, needlessly adjusting fan-shaped mango-colored napkins and shrugging their shoulders at no one in particular.
Cap arrived just a few minutes later. He slipped off his camel-colored cashmere coat and turned it over to the coat-check girl. After spotting me at the bar, he made his way over.
“A pinot grigio,” he said to the bartender, lifting himself onto the stool next to me. He was wearing a perfectly fitted navy suit and crisp blue shirt, no tie. Though I’d been aware of his confident, powerful aura all weekend, the suit turned it up several notches.
“I appreciate you meeting me on such short notice,” I said. “And by the way, everything’s off the record.”
“I don’t have time for small talk, so please get right to the point,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I don’t have a super good feeling about this past weekend. I’m wondering if someone who knew about Devon’s eating disorder found a way to push her over the edge.”
“You mean egged her on?” he said sharply. “Encouraged her to be even thinner?”
I cocked my head. “Maybe,” I said. I hadn’t considered that idea, but regardless, I decided not to spell out my own theory in detail; it would give too much away.
“Why would someone do something horrible like that?”
“Because they wanted Devon out of the picture.”
“And something tells me you’ve got a theory about who did the pushing.”
“Actually, I don’t have a specific person in mind. But I do have a specific concern—and it involves you.”
His strong jaw clenched visibly.
“I know your magazine specializes in the preposterous,” he said after a moment, “but you seemed too smart to engage in that sort of thing. I hope to God you’re not implying that I had anything to do with Devon’s death. Besides my personal feelings toward her, she was my most successful client.”
“People often lose sight of one advantage when something more important is at stake.”
“You’ve totally lost me. What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“You were having an affair with Devon, weren’t you?”
He pulled his whole body back in surprise and his full, soft mouth dropped open. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just for show.
“You can’t be serious,” he exclaimed. “What on earth gave you that ridiculous idea?”
“I saw the two of you together—out on the deck on Friday night.”
“So? She was my client. I often had to speak to her privately.”
“It didn’t sound like a business discussion.”
“Were you spying on us?” He took a distracted sip of his wine and shook his head in disgust.
“I headed out to the deck that first night, not knowing you were there, and I heard a few snippets. It sounded as if she was pressuring you to talk to Whitney.”
He scrunched up his face as if trying to recall something.
“You said, ‘I will tell her, but the timing has got to be right,’ ” I said, prodding him.
His eyes shot back toward me.
“I did agree to tell someone something, but it wasn’t Whitney we were talking about. It was Barbara Dern, the head of Devon’s modeling agency. There were a few issues with the agency, and Devon wanted me to approach her about them. I was worried about the timing of doing it immediately before the album came out. I thought it could blow up in her face.”
“Okay, but that’s not the only evidence I have. You were seen kissing Devon in the woods.”
“What? That’s preposterous.” That was the second time Cap had used the word. “Who’s telling you this garbage?” There was nearly smoke coming out of the guy’s ears, and a few waiters were shooting looks in our direction.
“One of the other guests saw you talking to Devon in the woods on Saturday. You leaned down and kissed her. Later I saw her crying nearby, and she told me she was frightened.”
“I admit I talked to Devon privately in the woods that Saturday. I went looking for her to follow up on our conversation from the night before. But I certainly didn’t kiss her. I can’t believe someone is telling you these lies. Are you actually suggesting that I was having an affair with Devon, and when things weren’t going right, I decided to kill her by exacerbating her eating disorder?”
“That’s one possibility. The other is that Whitney did it. She may have discovered the affair. Did you know that when she was a television reporter, she did a story on anorexia? That means she’s familiar with the physical and psychological aspects of an eating disorder.”
“She also did a story on Middle Eastern food, but that doesn’t make her a damn terrorist. You better not be planning to print these total distortions. In my job I know an awful lot about libel and slander, and you’d be stepping on dangerous ground.”
“I’m not planning on reporting any of this at the moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I had tried not to become flustered during the conversation, but it was tough, considering how agitated Cap was. “Like I said earlier, I had some concerns and I wanted to discuss them with you. If Devon was murdered, I want to know about it.”
“Who said I was kissing Devon in the woods? I want the name.”
“I was told in confidence.”
“You ought to know that you’re dealing with a complete and utter liar.”
“Were you privy to the fact that Devon was pregnant last year?”
His eyes registered awareness. But he jerked his head, a little surprised, it appeared, that I was privy to that fact.
“Yes, we knew. In fact, part of what I was doing in the woods was comforting Devon about that. She wanted a baby, and the miscarriage had been hard on her. But Whitney had talked to the doctor recently, and he was certain that there was every chance Devon could conceive again. I told Devon that. And don’t ask me who the father was. That’s private information.”
I didn’t say anything, just met his eyes and didn’t let go.
“Good God, you’re not thinking I’m the father, are you?” he said “If you start making ridiculous accusations in print about me, you’ll regret it.”
“You keep calling everything I saw preposterous, but it’s not hard to imagine you having an affair with Devon. Two attractive, successful people whose lives are entwined . . .”
He turned completely around and looked toward the door, obviously making sure his guest hadn’t arrived yet.
“There’s just one very important detail you’re not privy to,” he said, his voice tight with anger.
“And what would that be?” I asked.
“This is totally off the record?”
“Yes.”
“We couldn’t hav
e been having an affair. I’m not capable of having sex with anyone.”
Chapter 11
Cap’s comment flabbergasted me. The guy radiated virility. And he was married to a younger woman who seemed like she’d demand her fair share in the sack.
“Oh,” I said awkwardly. I mean, what was I supposed to do—ask him point blank what was up (or not up) with his package?
“You don’t believe me?” he asked.
“No, that’s not true. I’m just trying to process the information.”
“Wait here,” he said unexpectedly and slid off his stool. Oh, boy, I thought, he’s not going to drop trou and show me what’s the matter? But instead he strode toward the door of the still-empty restaurant and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He was calling someone. I hoped it wasn’t a libel lawyer.
While he spoke to the person on the other end, several red-nosed customers hurried in, looking happy to have escaped the cold. What in the world was he doing? I wondered. Cap’s guest would surely be here any second, and we wouldn’t have any more time to talk.
“All right,” he said after returning to the bar. “I made arrangements for you to speak to Whitney—right now.”
He grabbed a cocktail napkin from a stack toward the back edge of the bar and scrawled down his address with a chubby Montblanc pen.
“Whitney?”
“Yes, she’s waiting at our apartment—and she can explain everything.”
“Why are you going to so much trouble? One minute you’re threatening to sue my ass off, and the next minute you’re sending me up to your apartment.”
“Because I can’t allow you to go down this ridiculous road. Whitney will tell you what’s going on and why it would have been impossible for me and Devon to be having an affair.”
A few minutes later I was in an overheated cab, headed toward the West 60s. I couldn’t believe this latest turn of events—but I certainly wasn’t going to pass it up. The apartment turned out to be in a supermodern condo building near Lincoln Center, the kind with a huge, gleaming brass and marble lobby. My ears popped a little as the elevator hurled me toward the forty-third floor.
