So Pretty It Hurts bwm-6

by Kate White

  I parked several houses away on the opposite side of the street, close enough to observe the goings-on, but not so near that I would attract attention. There were cars parked all along the front of Sherrie’s house, but I had no way of knowing which belonged to neighbors and which to mourners. Then my eye found a vehicle that looked familiar—a black Beemer. Cap and Whitney had driven a black BMW to Scott’s, though I didn’t remember the license plate and couldn’t be sure this was theirs.

  Only time was going to tell. I opened the thermos and poured coffee, and then helped myself to an apple. I’d once joined a police stakeout when I was on the crime beat in Albany, and I knew how mind-numbingly boring it could be. But at least I had an end point today. The service started at two, and everyone would have to be at the church—or at the funeral home if that’s where they were meeting—by at least one thirty.

  In the end it didn’t take long for me to see a little action. A black town car suddenly began nosing its way down the street in my direction, the gray-haired driver craning his neck as he looked for house numbers. He pulled up right in front of Sherrie’s. I thought it might be a car from the funeral home, but a minute later Christian stepped out of the house and hurried down the saggy stairs toward the car, holding his black leather coat closed with one hand. The expression of disgust on his face suggested he was contemplating getting deloused as soon as he returned to Manhattan. I slunk down slightly in my seat, but he was situating himself in the backseat of the town car and never glanced in my direction. It made sense that he would have stopped by to offer his condolences. But what else had been discussed? I wondered.

  Ten minutes later Cap emerged from the house, looking dapper as usual in his camel topcoat. I slunk back down again and raised the binos to my eyes. He looked distracted. Just like Christian, he had a legitimate reason to be visiting Sherrie, but was there a second agenda? He surveyed the street and then unlocked his car door. While he had his back to me, I slid all the way down in the seat, not wanting him to catch even a glimpse of a person in the car. As I heard his BMW cruise by, I wondered where Whitney was. I couldn’t imagine her not attending the service with Cap. Maybe she was coming separately—or she might even be inside with Sherrie.

  The next two hours dragged. It was like sitting in an airport after they’ve announced your plane needs a new part before it can take off. At around twelve thirty there was a flurry of activity. A couple of local types arrived, carrying platters covered with aluminum foil, probably the standard death-in-the-family cold cuts and tuna casserole. They reemerged from the house ten minutes later.

  I ate my sandwich but avoided more coffee, knowing I’d only have to pee. There were no more comings and goings. I glanced at my watch. One twenty. Probably the only action I was going to see now was Sherrie coming out for the funeral, and sure enough, a minute later another black town car pulled up, this one so shiny it had to be from the funeral home. The driver, neatly dressed, rapped on the door and was ushered inside.

  But then another car moseyed down the street and came to an abrupt stop, a dusty white VW Passat that seemed incongruous among the pickup trucks and old Fords on the block. And goodness gracious, guess who slowly hauled himself out of it? None other than Richard Parkin. Was he coming to tell Sherrie just what a piece of shit her daughter was? Or explain that he’d let bygones be bygones? Or to pay Sherrie off for lying about me?

  I let a story play out in my mind. Richard had killed Devon, convinced that her death would be blamed on her own self-destructiveness. But then I started poking around, raising other theories. He quickly hatched a plot to undermine me. And who better than another journalist to realize how disastrous Sherrie’s call to my boss would be to my career? But how could he have formed an association with Sherrie? Maybe he had decided he could stomach it long enough to obtain what he needed.

  I started to breathe harder, churned up by this latest development. If Richard were guilty, how in the world would I possibly prove it? Despite his propensity for booze, he was clever and wily, someone it would be tough to outsmart. Maybe Detective Collinson would at least be interested in hearing Richard’s history with Devon.

  Richard was in the house just a few minutes—long enough, though, to hand over cash. The solemn expression on his face when he exited revealed absolutely nothing. By the time he drove off, I’d made sure I’d slunk down all the way in my seat again.

  At 1:40 Sherrie Barr finally emerged, following the limo driver and propped up by two women. She was fifty-five, tops, and her physical form bore a striking resemblance to Devon’s, but even in my binoculars I could see that she was haggard looking, blotchy, and unsteady. I wondered how much of that was due to grief and how much to booze.

  I waited for the limo to pull out before I started my car and followed at a distance behind it. I parked in the same spot I’d found before, two blocks away from the church, and made my way on foot to the outskirts of the crowd that had gathered. There were about two hundred people outside—local residents who’d come to rubberneck, and at least seventy-five press, a combo of photographers, print people, and TV crews, most of whom were doing a shuffle with their feet to stay warm. Usually with a crowd of onlookers and press this size, the noise level can get pretty high, but there was a funeral pall cast over this one. The only sound was the murmur of whispers and the hum from the TV vans. Scanning the crowd, I failed to spot Thornwell, but I did see, the Buzz staffer, Stacy, whom Jess had mentioned. I was pretty sure that in my getup, I wasn’t going to nab her attention.

  I was just in time to see Sherrie stagger into church, and then the doors were closed behind her. It was clear that I’d missed all the arrivals—and the casket—while I was on my stakeout. I’d have to wait until the end to see who had showed. I held my position on the fringe of the crowd. Temperature-wise, it was only in the midthirties, and the wind had started to kick up, whipping around everyone’s hair. Even though I’d worn hiking boots and several pairs of socks, it wasn’t long before I was doing the foot shuffle myself.

  The service lasted only about thirty minutes, and as soon as the doors were flung open, the crowd sounds swelled. Cameras began to click and TV commentators droned into their mikes. As you’d expect, Sherrie was one of the first to exit, along with her prop-her-uppers, followed by a cluster of people who were obviously friends and relatives. Scott emerged next, along with Christian, Cap, and Whitney, clutching Cap’s arm. So she was in town after all. She’d opted for a black mink for the occasion and her blond hair was brushed back, held in place by what seemed to be a matching mink headband.

  And then, to a crescendo of murmurs from the crowd, came Tommy and Tory, holding hands. It looked as if Tory hadn’t let the fact that she thought Tommy was a loser and an asshole get in the way of some red-carpet-style shots that would be seen around the world. He was in tight black jeans and a black suit jacket, no overcoat. His ego clearly generated enough heat to keep his body warm in near-freezing conditions. Tory was wearing skinny, skinny black pants with some sort of tabs on the calves, black stilettos, and a black coat that seemed to be made of a techno fabric. While she descended the stairs, she flipped the hood up, revealing the thick black fur that lined the coat. Tommy might not care about the weather, but Tory was going for a downtown–meets–Doctor Zhivago effect.

  Jane was one of the last to appear, followed by a spurt of people who looked like area residents.

  No Richard, interestingly. And no casket either, I suddenly realized. That actually should have been the first thing out the door. Just as I was contemplating what was going on, I overheard a TV sound guy explain to someone that there was going to be no burial. It seemed as if Devon was going to be cremated. Maybe her ashes were going to be dropped from a plane over Seventh Avenue.

  And then all of a sudden, I was staring right at Thornwell. He’d been tucked away in a throng of reporters but was visible now as the crowd had begun to disperse. I could have sworn he stared right at me. Had I been tagged? I wondered anxiously.
But then he jerked his head to the left to say something casually to the man next to him and didn’t glance back in my direction. I exhaled in relief. Thornwell had definitely looked right at me, but clearly hadn’t realized who it was in the baseball cap, sunglasses, and butt-ugly parka.

  Since there’d be no mad dash to the cemetery, I headed back to Sherrie’s. There were more cars lined along the street now, probably visitors at her house, and I ended up parking farther away than last time. But it didn’t matter. In the next half hour, no one of note came in or out of the house. There was no Passat in sight and no Beemer.

  At three twenty I took off. I had promised myself I’d arrive at the barn a half hour early as a precaution. One thing I knew for sure. If a Passat pulled up, I was going to beat a hasty retreat. The fact that Richard had not attended the funeral indicated he’d come to Pine Grove not to mourn Devon but to discuss something with Sherrie. And if he were the person behind Devon’s death and Sherrie’s incrimination of me, I certainly didn’t want to be chatting with him at dusk on a deserted country road.

  I found the barn again easily. Parking my car along the side of the road was going to be a hazard to anyone driving by this late; I realized that my only alternative was to pull into the short drive that led up to the double doors of the barn. I backed in so that it would be easy for me to peel out if necessary.

  I stepped out of the car and surveyed the area. There was an outdoor security light shining already from the house on the rise, but no lights on yet at the farmhouse down the road. The sun hung low in the sky, shining dispiritedly. I glanced down at the ground. It was frozen hard, but there was one small area where I could make out the edge of a tire print. Had the person who’d texted me parked here earlier, checking out the location?

  Back in the car, I took two unenthusiastic bites of the sandwich I hadn’t finished earlier and tried to stay calm. I had to hope that the person coming really wanted to help me. Regardless of who drove up, I wasn’t going to emerge from my car. I’d insist that we talk from our windows, and I’d keep the motor running. I just couldn’t let my guard down for a second when he—or she—arrived.

  At ten to four, a car headed down the road from the south, the direction I’d come from, and my heart skipped. But the driver kept on without even glancing my way. The next ten minutes passed torturously slow. And then ten more minutes went by. And ten more. Someone, it seemed, had decided to play a nasty little game with me.

  I stepped out of the car again and scanned my surroundings. There was absolutely no one in sight. Maybe the person I was supposed to rendezvous with had sent an updated message to me, not realizing that I had no service here.

  I glanced back at the barn and noticed for the first time that one of the double doors was slightly ajar. The wooden bolt that was used to fasten it closed had been slipped over into its sling. I leaned into the car, grabbed the flashlight I’d brought with me, and walked up to the barn. After glancing instinctively behind me, I grabbed the wooden bolt. As I slowly pulled the door open, it let out a long, sad creak. The last rays of daylight reached a foot or two into the barn, but most of the interior was pitch-black. I swept the beam of the flashlight over the insides. Stacks and stacks of hay filled the back half of the barn. And that was it.

  Was I meant to find a message in here? I stepped a couple of feet inside and trained my light over every surface. Nothing. Pulling my BlackBerry from my jacket pocket, I reread the message. It had clearly stated that the person would meet me here. It was time to get the hell out of Pine Grove.

  And then I thought I heard something. Toward the back of the barn. I froze for a second. No, now the sound was coming from along the side of the barn, outside. I spun around, a wave of fear crashing over me. As I faced the door, I saw it slam shut with a wallop.

  “Hey,” I yelled. Except for the light from my flashlight, I was in total darkness. “Who’s there?”

  There was no reply. Just the sound of the wooden bolt being slid into place.

  Chapter 20

  I dashed to the door, guided by the flashlight, and yanked. Nothing gave.

  “Hey,” I yelled again.

  For a split second I thought that the farmer had locked the door, making his rounds before dark. But that stupid idea morphed almost instantly into the truth: I had been tricked—and trapped on purpose. My heart began to pound so hard I could feel it in my ears.

  I peered through a crack in the barn door, but all I could spot was a sliver of my rental car. Where had the person come from? If there’d been a car, I would have heard it. If he had arrived by foot along the road or the field, surely I would have seen him—I had only been inside for a few seconds.

  Then suddenly there were footsteps, scurrying along the north side of the barn. I hurried over and peered through a crack in the planks. I saw a flash of dark coat, so close I could have almost touched it. The person continued, running along the edge of the barn toward the back, but the endless stacks of hay blocked my view down there. The footsteps receded. Whoever had done this had come by foot apparently—at least part of the way—and had now taken off.

  I stuffed my hand in my coat pocket to grab my BlackBerry and then remembered, panic-stricken, that it got no service here. I checked the screen anyway, just to be sure I hadn’t managed to pick up a signal somehow, but it was dead.

  I tried the door again, yanking as hard as I could, but I could see there was no way to open it. Remembering all the old farm tools on the walls of Scott’s barn upstate, I trained the beam of the flashlight over these walls; there was nothing like that, only a rusted oil can sitting on a small shelf. I checked for another entrance. Nothing.

  I leaned closer to the door, pressed my mouth against one of the gaps in the wood, and yelled, “Help!” seven or eight times, hoping the person who lived in the house on the hill might hear. I saw through the crack that it was almost dark. I realized the chance of someone being out now was next to nil.

  I was starting to feel nearly freaked with fear. No one who cared about me knew that I’d come to the barn, and even if Beau became concerned by late tonight and reported my disappearance to the police here, they’d be looking for my Jeep, not a rented Toyota. I would have to count on the fact that the homeowner up the hill or the farmer who owned the barn would begin to wonder what the hell my car was doing out in front and investigate.

  But what if they didn’t? I paced a small section of the barn, the beam of my flashlight twitching crazily. I willed myself to be calm. I had to figure a way out of this.

  I did a few jumping jacks, just to keep the cold at bay, and then perched on a haystack. The straw pricked through my jeans uncomfortably, but still, sitting down seemed to relax me a little. The good news, I realized, was that I probably wouldn’t freeze to death. It was going to be below freezing tonight, but there was tons of hay for me to snuggle into. Wasn’t that how little calves and lambs stayed warm? I had a candy bar in my pocket, too, and that would stave off any serious hunger pains.

  Though I was desperate to find a way out, I also wanted to know who had done this to me. I tried to hash through everything in my mind. Though I had driven out to the barn a half hour early as a safeguard, the person who had lured me here had probably come out even earlier and hidden nearby, lying in wait. He or she must have left the barn door open, banking on the fact that when I decided I’d been stood up, curiosity would have compelled me to take a quick look inside before leaving. As soon as he saw me enter the barn, he must have sprung forward and slammed the door shut.

  So who was it? Richard? He could have easily guessed I’d be coming to Pine Grove and laid the trap.

  But there were others I’d recently provoked as well: Jane, by revealing that I knew of her book deal and that she had probably lied about Cap and Devon; Christian, by implying there might be trouble with the modeling agency.

  As my mind danced around the houseguests, a troubling thought began to surface. What if the person came back? What if the idea wasn’t simply to
leave me here to freeze my ass off, but to return and attack me under cover of darkness? I had to get out.

  I thrust my hand in my pocket and grabbed my BlackBerry again. Last winter, during a trip to West Virginia for a freelance article, I’d ended up in a similar situation with my cell service, but during the night I must have picked up a faint signal because a few e-mails had come through. Just in case this same phenomenon happened here, I typed an SOS to Beau with copies to Jessie and Landon, explaining my dilemma and giving not only my location but also a description of the rental car. Though Landon only checked his e-mail about once a day, Beau looked at his frequently and Jessie was good for every minute and a half.

  Once again I trained the beam of my flashlight over the barn walls. I was looking for either a loose piece of wood I could use as a crowbar or a way out. But I didn’t see a thing. I squeezed my forehead with one hand, trying to make my brain work better. Barns. What did I know about them? When I was a little girl, my father took my brothers and me to a working farm for a weekend, where we fed newborn calves with bottles and attempted to milk the cows. I remembered grimy windows in the barn there—not like in Scott’s big barn, where most of the windows had all been added after the fact, but one or two cut in a wall to let light stream in as the farmer worked. This barn didn’t seem to have any. Maybe because it had always been for storage. Or for animals to sleep in.

  There might, however, be a window at the far end, blocked by the hay. Or even a back door. The killer might have assumed I would never guess it was there with all the hay. But if it was, I needed to find it.

  I bounced the light over the bales of hay. They took up almost the entire rear half of the barn. I realized that the only way to reach the back would be to shift the bales, one by freaking one.