by Kate White
I stared off, my mind racing.
“What?” Jessie asked. “You’ve got that Bailey-Weggins-has-a-dangerous-idea look on your face.”
“Maybe Devon’s life was kind of a bore when she was alive, but now that she’s dead, it’s a bit more interesting, right? A publisher might be suddenly eager for a book on Devon that they could rush to press.”
I quickly filled Jessie in on what I’d learned this morning from Detective Collinson and how it fit with what Sandy had shared about the funny taste of the water.
“Omigod,” Jessie muttered. “Are you saying that Jane killed Devon so that she’d have a better chance of selling her book?”
“It’s just a thought. A crazy one, but someone in that house had a motive. I’m almost sure of it.”
She started to lob more questions at me, but glancing at my watch, I saw that I needed to hightail it out of there for my meeting with Tory. I told her I’d catch up with her later.
“Just one more thing,” Jessie said. “Everything still good with Beau?”
I smiled. “Yeah, all good.”
Because of how cold it was outside, there was tons of snarky cab competition, and it took me fifteen minutes to flag one down. Then I was stuck in traffic. I used the time to check voicemail. I discovered that while I’d been with Jessie, Beau had left a message saying he’d be tied up for dinner until about ten but he’d love to see me afterward.
I made it downtown just in time. The photo studio turned out to be in an old brick building that had once probably contained small factories but had since been gutted to create large, loftlike spaces. I took the elevator to the fifth floor and found myself in a huge lobby with at least four photo studios spilling off from it. There were leather-backed chairs and a small bar in the waiting area, with an old-fashioned popcorn maker on the counter and a cluster of guys in jeans and hoodies talking aimlessly. Several messengers moved around on the periphery, lugging stuffed black garment bags. All of sudden a huge dog—a mastiff, I thought—trotted by itself out of one of the studios and headed down a hallway.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked. I noticed she had last week’s Buzz opened in front of her.
“Studio Two?”
“Are they expecting you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Tory Hartwick.”
She pointed to a studio just across from me. Thankfully there was still music emanating from the open doorway, so the shoot obviously hadn’t ended yet.
As I crossed the pockmarked cement floor, my BlackBerry rang. Thinking it might be one of the other houseguests I’d left a message for, I dug it quickly out of my bag. Nash’s name showed on the screen. Something big must have happened.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked.
“Where are you?” he asked brusquely. Nash could be moody, but I’d never heard him speak to me in such an abrupt tone.
“Downtown, about to do an interview for the Devon Barr story. Why?”
“You need to come back here. Right now.”
“You sound pissed. Is anything the matter?”
“Yeah, something’s the matter. Your job is in serious jeopardy.”
Chapter 12
“What?” I said. My legs suddenly seemed to liquefy. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t want to get into it on the phone. How soon can you get here?”
“Uh, depending on traffic, a half hour to forty-five minutes,” I said.
“All right,” was his only response. No good-bye. Not even a “See you then.”
To my chagrin, my hand was trembling slightly as I slipped the BlackBerry back into my bag. I had stepped in doo-doo somehow, but I couldn’t imagine how. I’d been working hard on the Devon story, investigating every angle possible, so it was tough to figure what he might see as a shortcoming in my efforts. Had another magazine or Web site—like TMZ, which broke heaps of celebrity news every week—scooped us on some detail about Devon’s death? If that was the case, Nash might be annoyed or frazzled, but he wouldn’t have sounded like a cougar that hadn’t eaten in days.
I needed to get back to the Buzz offices and find out what was going on, but I also didn’t want to blow my chance to pump Tory. I’d told Nash I might be as long as forty-five minutes, but I was pretty sure I could make it uptown in thirty. I decided to use the next fifteen minutes to try to elicit what I could from Tory—though it was going to be hard as hell to concentrate.
With my stomach grinding, I walked through the open door of Studio Two, and found myself immediately in a small seating area. Ahead of me to my right was a partitioned-off area where the actual shoot was happening, with a backdrop of seamless paper that created the illusion of the space going on forever, like a piece of white sky. The photographer was snapping away at a girl, using phrases I’d thought they only tossed out in movie scenes about photo shoots—like “That’s perfect, hold it just there,” and “Okay, give me the smile again. Chin up.” Next to him an assistant watched the photos flash instantaneously on a computer screen.
To the left was an open makeup and dressing area, with a huge mirror lined with lights. Several people in black were standing near the window, talking. At the counter one model was having her hair wrapped in jumbo Velcro rollers, and another was rifling through a python-printed tote bag. It took me a second to realize it was Tory.
As I was deliberating about the best way to grab her attention, she glanced up and spotted me. I saw her shoulders sag in annoyance. She said a few words to the people by the window and then made her way over to me. She was wearing tight, tight black jeans, black boots that went above her knees, and a red turtleneck sweater that looked really striking with her cropped black hair. I figured those were her own clothes, not something for the shoot, because the other model on the set was in a sheer, flowy outfit that had next spring written all over it.
“This is really uncool, you know—you coming to my job,” Tory said after she’d walked over to me.
I was about to point out that she was the one who’d invited me but decided it was probably best not to aggravate her anymore.
“Are you done?” I asked. “Can we talk now?”
“I’m done for the day. But I don’t want to talk here.”
She moved past me, leading the way on her giraffe legs out of the studio, past the sounds of “That’s right, very nice,” and “Perfect, perfect.” As I followed her into the hallway I stole a glance at my watch. I had about twelve minutes now, and I was going to have to make the most of them. Just thinking about my time restrictions made Nash’s words echo in my head, hard as a car horn—“Your job is in serious jeopardy.” It took everything to shut them out.
“I suppose you’ve heard the news about Devon’s death,” I said as we positioned ourselves in a corner of the lobby.
“You mean, that she had some kind of heart problem.”
“Yes. She died of a heart attack.”
“That’s so freaky. My grandfather had a heart attack, but he was like eighty.”
“Actually, heart attacks aren’t all that uncommon in people who have eating disorders,” I said. “I know you told me last weekend that you weren’t aware of any problems with Devon regarding her eating, but the autopsy found differently. The bottom line is that she was anorexic.”
“Why are you so freaking interested?” Tory demanded. “You didn’t even know her.”
“You’re right. I didn’t know her. But there are some aspects of her death that confuse me. I want to find out exactly what happened to Devon.”
“But you said you did know,” Tory whined. “That she died of a heart attack.”
“True, but I’m curious about why her anorexia flared up again. From what I understand from Cap and Whitney”—invoking their names seemed like a good way to gain some cred with her—“Devon had suffered from anorexia years ago but had overcome it. Why do you think it cropped up again now—when she had so much going for her.”
“Maybe she was nervous about her album,” Tor
y said without much conviction. “Or about being without a guy. Devon didn’t like being on her own.”
“So had you noticed her eating issues?” I asked. “I appreciate you covering for Devon earlier out of respect for her privacy, but the truth is out now—so there’s no need to.”
“I didn’t know for sure,” she said. “I mean, I noticed she was skinnier. And then I heard her puking in the bathroom of a club one night a couple of weeks ago. I mean it didn’t even really sound like puking. It was more like this dry heaving—like after you’ve puked all night and don’t have anything left.”
Yummy, I thought.
“About two weeks ago, you say?” I asked.
“Maybe. Yeah, I guess.”
“Anything else going on then?”
“No. I mean, I guess, as you could see, she was probably more upset about being dumped by Tommy than she let on. She wanted him back. And she brought me to Scott’s to be some kind of—what do you call it? Scapegoat?”
Gosh, the girl made an olive seem smart.
“Did Devon seem scared at all to you lately?”
“No. What would she be scared about?”
It was becoming clear that what had freaked her on the day she died—“Someone knows something”—might have surfaced this past weekend. Somehow I was going to have to figure out what it was.
“There’s something else I’m curious about, Tory. Have you ever heard of Lasix?”
She twisted one side of her mouth as if she were concentrating.
“Is that the surgery for your eyes?” she said. “Where you don’t have to wear glasses anymore?”
I couldn’t totally fault her for that one—they did sound the same.
“No, Lasix is a diuretic. Had you ever heard of Devon using it?”
She shook her head. “No, never heard of it,” she said.
I’d been watching her closely, and nothing in her face suggested that this information was making her uncomfortable. It could be because she truly had no idea what I was talking about—or because the dull, slack expression she usually wore was incapable of betraying what was really crossing her mind.
I decided to go down another road and see where that took me.
“How’ve you been doing in light of all this? It must be hard to have that kind of weekend and then go right back to work.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said. “I mean, what are you gonna do?”
“Speaking of work, I hear you may start using Cap—to help manage your career.”
“Who told you that?” she demanded. There was a flash of anger in her deep, hooded eyes, and I was glad she wasn’t holding a drink.
“I forget—someone this weekend,” I said. “But that’s good, right? He did so much for Devon’s career.”
She began rooting through her python bag—to avoid eye contact, I suspected.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing,” she muttered. “I wanna keep my options open for now.”
“What about Tommy? Is he still in the picture?”
She jerked her head up.
“That guy is such an asshole,” she declared. “I can’t believe I ever looked twice at him. He goes around as if he’s the rock king of the world, and his last album sold about seventy-five thousand copies. I dropped him off Sunday night—he’s got a suspended license, so I had to drive his Jag—and told him to not even think of calling me.”
“Do you believe Tommy and Devon were up to more than flirting this past weekend?”
“Who the fuck cares?” she said. She shook her head back and forth. “Maybe. You saw how they were acting, right? Plus,” she added after a second’s pause, “he disappeared later Saturday night—for about an hour.”
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck jump to attention.
“What time was that?”
“Around one. He’s such a turd.”
“And you think he went to Devon’s room?”
“When he came back, he said he’d been in the big barn the whole time—having a cigarette and a brandy. He said that he couldn’t sleep. But what the asshole didn’t know was that I went up there looking for him, and he wasn’t there. I was tempted to knock on Devon’s door, but I’m not going to stoop to that kind of thing. He comes back an hour later and tells me I must have showed up at the moment he went to the head.”
“Did you know that Devon was pregnant last winter?”
“Pregnant? By Tommy?” The idea seemed to freak her out.
“No, it was around this time last year—before she met him.”
“But where’s the baby?” she asked. Good question. Maybe I hadn’t given the girl enough credit.
“She apparently miscarried at around four or five months. You didn’t know about it?”
“I didn’t know her last winter. We got to be friends this past summer.”
But of course. Devon and Tory lived in that world of instant friendships that then ended up lasting about four seconds.
I shot another quick look at my watch. I needed to haul butt. I told Tory I had another appointment but might touch base with her later, which seemed to really thrill her. Then I asked for Tommy’s cell number.
“I’ve got a few questions for him, too,” I said, in case she thought I might be making a play for the guy.
“You know what would be funny,” she said, writing it down. “You should publish his number in your magazine—so he gets a billion calls.”
“I’ll run that by the editor. I have just one last question for you. Was Devon having any problems with her modeling agency?”
“We have different agencies, so I didn’t really know what went on at hers. But I’ll tell you one thing: she and Christian practically never talked last weekend. Every time he was on one side of the room, she went to the other.”
Not having known the players and their relationships, I hadn’t picked up on that, but as I flashed back through the weekend, I realized I’d never seen them interacting.
“Why invite him then?”
“I don’t think she did. Scott must have.” But Scott had told me Devon had dictated the guest list.
I said a quick good-bye and flew out of there. Knowing that finding a cab would be a bitch, I opted for the subway instead. As the train shot through the tunnel, with me squashed in a mound of parkas and wool coats, I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach and turned over what I’d learned from Tory. Tommy had left his room Saturday night and had probably popped into Devon’s. But that raised plenty of questions. Devon had seemed unsteady when she went back to her room after dinner, and in hindsight it was clear she was already in a precarious situation physically. And around one thirty she had called Laura, complaining of feeling ill. So it was hard to imagine her being up for any fireworks in the sack. Why had Tommy hung around, then? Had he tried to help her? And if so, why hadn’t he said anything about it? Perhaps he’d been more forthcoming with the police, but I doubted it. He didn’t seem like the type of guy who made nice with cops.
Up on the street, I yanked my BlackBerry from my purse and called Jessie. Please, please pick up, I begged, and sighed in relief when she did.
“Look, I’m apparently in some kind of trouble with Nash,” I told her. “Have you heard anything?”
“No, nothing,” she said, lowering her voice. “What kind of trouble could you possibly be in? Our Web site is getting a zillion hits thanks to your story. He should be giving you a fucking raise.”
“And you haven’t seen anything weird or tense going on there? I’m wondering if someone scooped me on some part of the Devon Barr story.”
“No, nothing weird . . . Oh, God, wait a minute. One of the lawyers was down here earlier—the scary one with the long chin who makes your bowels loosen the minute you see him. He was in Nash’s office with the door closed for about fifteen minutes. I figured some celebrity was threatening to sue our ass off.”
“When was this?”
“About an hour ago.”
“I’m almost there now
, so I’ll see you in a few.”
I knew it might not be connected, but considering the lawyer had been in Nash’s office immediately before I’d received the call, there was a good chance they were related. Lawyers paying house calls to editorial floors often meant a threat of either libel or invasion of privacy. I racked my brain, trying to think of anything I’d included in Web site stories that might have set off a stink, but I couldn’t come up with a thing.
I spilled out of the elevator onto the floor just five minutes later. I dropped my coat and bag on my chair, accepted Jessie’s look of support with a grim smile, and headed for Nash’s office.
“Come in and close the door,” was all he said when I popped my head in.
“What’s going on?” I asked as I took a seat. He wore a stern, almost stricken expression I’d never witnessed on him before, even after the worst tussle with a Hollywood publicist. I did my best to keep my panic under wraps.
“I think you know what’s going on.”
“What’s going on from my end is that I’m spending every waking moment reporting my story,” I said, failing, of course, to deduct the hour and a half I’d been spread-eagled nude in front of a roaring fire last night. “But clearly something else is up, or you wouldn’t have called me in here. I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your conversations with Sherrie Barr.”
“You mean Devon Barr, don’t you?”
“No, Sherrie. Devon’s mother.”
“But I’ve never spoken to Devon’s mother.”
“She says differently,” he snapped.
“What?” I said. “Like I just said, I’ve had no contact at all with her mother—I was told that the reporter doing the sidebar on Devon had tried to reach her but hadn’t had any luck. And even if I had talked to her, what’s the big deal?”
Nash massaged his right hand hard with the other, as if there was a kink in it, and stared questioningly at me.
