So Pretty It Hurts bwm-6

by Kate White

  “What are you saying exactly?” Beau asked. “That she had an abortion?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That she had an abortion.”

  Beau shook his head in near disbelief as he poured us each another glug of wine.

  “So Devon Barr went through all the trouble of fertility treatments and then ended the pregnancy?” he said. “What kind of woman would do that?”

  “A woman like Devon,” I said ruefully. “You know, my mother said something to me yesterday on the phone about how after you’ve had a baby, your life is never the same, and it’s been niggling at me ever since. Devon was totally narcissistic, someone who didn’t give a damn about anything other than her immediate gratification. And while being pregnant worked for her one moment, it didn’t the next. She was afraid that a baby would screw up the life she suddenly envisioned with Tommy.”

  “But how would that circle back to Whitney as a suspect?”

  “I have no freaking clue,” I said. “But if I’m right and Devon did have an abortion, maybe Whitney’s suspicions were raised for some reason, and in digging deeper, she found out Cap was the father. Perhaps the whole fertility treatment thing was a lie—something Devon made up as a smokescreen to cover up the fact that Cap was the father. And of course, maybe Cap killed Devon when he learned she’d aborted his child. God, my head hurts just thinking about this stuff.

  “And,” I added, “there’s a problem with the idea of Whitney as the killer. She seems really caught up in the lifestyle she has with Cap, and she would have known that in murdering Devon, she was slaughtering the golden goose. And yet—I don’t know. I sense there’s something there, but I don’t know what yet.”

  “Tell me who else you loaned your phone to.”

  “Christian. I tossed it to him when the lights went out.”

  “But wouldn’t he have been slaughtering the golden goose, too?”

  “True, but Devon may have been holding something over him—something related to the modeling agency. Cap told me that Devon had a complaint she wanted him to share with the head of First Models, but he wouldn’t say what it was about. Maybe it involved Christian, and he was wise to her.”

  “What could a model booker have done that would be so bad?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but my guess is that it would involve money.”

  I was feeling a little anxious being on the current subject because the name Chris Wickersham seemed dangerously close to the surface. It wouldn’t be hard for Beau to guess that this is why I’d met up with Chris. Time to move off the topic.

  “Would you mind if we hit the sack now?” I asked. “Every muscle in my body aches. I guess my lack of training as a hay-bale tosser has caught up with me.”

  “Sure,” Beau said. “And why don’t I massage some of those achy muscles for you?” I accepted gratefully.

  In the bedroom, Beau gently removed my clothes and lay me down on the bed for my massage. With his strong hands he started with my shoulders and back and eventually worked his way down my arms and legs. I concentrated on the sheer pleasure of the experience. Though ten minutes earlier sex was the furthest thing from my mind, feeling Beau’s hands on my naked body awoke something in me, and before long I felt a strong rush of desire. It was more than just physical. Mentally, I craved a kind of raw, intense connection with Beau. I eased onto my back and reached for him.

  “You sure?” he asked in the darkness.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s almost a medical emergency.”

  I awoke the next day at eight thirty to clinking and clanging sounds emanating from my kitchen, and when I padded out there, I found Beau making scrambled eggs. Over breakfast he asked what my next move would be as far as the case was concerned. I had thought about that as I was falling asleep the night before, and I realized I was stalled for the time being. I was anxious to look into the abortion theory as best as I could, but I wouldn’t be able to until Monday.

  Beau suggested we spend a quiet day together. Still no follow-up on our “commitment” discussion, but I realized that because of what I’d been through, he wasn’t putting any pressure on me. We read the paper, ordered in lunch, and then took a long walk around the Village and a windy Washington Square Park. Every few moments, I found myself glancing over my shoulder. Despite the weather, people sat crouched over some of the chess tables or perched on the edge of the fountain. The killer had come after me twice, and I couldn’t help but worry there might be yet another attempt. After an early dinner on MacDougal Street, we headed back to my place, where Beau once again stayed the night.

  We were both up early the next morning. Beau had meetings all day and said he might be hard to reach, but made me swear I’d leave messages letting him know whenever I went out. After he left, I cooled my heels for a while, and then, as soon as it was nine o’clock, I phoned the upstate coroner’s office. A secretary or receptionist answered, with a level of excitement in her voice that made me suspect I’d caught her in the midst of tabbing file folders.

  “Good morning,” I said, “this is Belinda Hogan from the New York City Police press office. I’d like to talk to someone there about the Devon Barr autopsy. Who’s the best person?”

  “That would be Hank—Hank Cleary,” the woman said. “But he’s not—oh wait, he’s back. I’ll put you through.”

  “What can I do for you?” Cleary asked after I’d reintroduced myself. He was pleasant enough, but there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

  “I wanted to pass along some information that I thought you should be aware of.”

  “Okay,” he said, sounding wary now. “Shoot.”

  “As you might expect, we’ve received a ton of calls down here from press snooping around. Mostly they’ve been interested in the anorexia angle. But late on Friday a reporter called and inquired if it was true that Devon Bar had had an abortion. I was surprised somebody on the outside would know that.”

  That was a little trick I’d learned from an old reporter I’d once worked with. Sometimes statements worked better than questions when you were talking to people who were supposed to protect information.

  “What are you suggesting exactly?” Cleary said.

  “That you may have some loose lips up there. I’m not saying anyone leaked it to the press. Someone may have told a friend or family member, and then it got passed on from there. And it may have come from someplace else entirely—like her doctor’s office. But I thought you should be aware.”

  “Well, I’m positive no one from this office blabbed it,” he said defensively. “We may not be city folks, but we know enough to keep our mouths shut on a confidential matter like that.”

  Bingo. It sounded, at least, as if I’d been right—Devon had had an abortion. It fit with the spoiled, willful Devon I’d known briefly. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it.

  Next question to try to answer: Had Whitney learned of it somehow? I thought suddenly of something that Cap had said to me when I’d questioned him about his conversation in the woods with Devon. He’d told me he’d comforted Devon about losing the baby and mentioned to her that Whitney had spoken to the gynecologist. But still, this wasn’t leading anyplace.

  I took a shower next, hoping that the warm water would not only soothe my still-aching muscles but help clear my head. I sensed that there was a thought just out of reach, pestering me the way a pebble in your shoe does—at first not so much, but after a while, to greater and greater distraction. As I was toweling off, I heard my phone ring. To my relief, it turned out to be Collinson.

  “I’ve spoken to the troopers in Pennsylvania,” he said, “but I want to hear it from you.”

  “Of course,” I said. “That’s why I left you the message. Did you not get it?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

  I told him the story but didn’t whisper a word about the two suspects in my mind. It seemed unfair to throw them under the bus until I dug up more information.

  “We’re going to be w
orking with several different law enforcement agencies and giving this our full attention,” he said. “And I want you to butt out, Ms. Weggins. I appreciate your insights, but this is a police matter.”

  “I hear you,” I said. That was my way of making it sound like I was taking his order while I really wasn’t.

  The phone rang again as soon as I had disconnected the call. Jeez, I thought, was he checking to make sure that his lecture had sunk in? But it wasn’t Collinson. I froze as someone with a slight Texas twang said my name.

  “Hello, Whitney,” I said in reply.

  “Have you got a moment to talk?” she asked. So much sweeter-sounding than the last time we’d spoken, but a warning siren was already going off in my brain.

  “Sure,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “The last time we met, you didn’t seem to enjoy talking to me.”

  “I know I seemed impatient that day, but I hope you understood what an awkward position you’d put Cap and me in. However, there—there’s something you need to know the truth about.”

  “About Cap?” I asked, more than curious where she was headed.

  “No, not about Cap, for goodness sake. Why do you keep insisting that this is all about Cap? I need to talk to you about Christian.”

  Christian. Was there really something there? Or was she purposely leading me astray?

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

  “It needs to be discussed in private—I don’t want to get into it on my cell phone. Can you come by my apartment again?”

  The siren sound in my head was nearly deafening now. I wanted to hear what she had to say, but I couldn’t take any chances.

  “Uh—,” I said, unsure of what to suggest. Should I invite her to my place? Or some kind of neutral ground—preferably with professional snipers posted nearby. “I have a pretty busy day ahead. Would it be possible for you to come downtown to my neck of the woods?”

  “I wish I could,” she said. “But I have two women here testing recipes all day for my cookbook. I don’t want to leave them alone in the apartment.”

  Clearly, I told myself, if she were the killer, she wouldn’t pull anything in front of two recipe testers. It was hard to imagine her chasing me around the kitchen with a butcher knife while her helpers whipped up a platter of pralines.

  “All right,” I told her. “When?”

  She said in an hour. I used the time to think through the best strategy to use. Keep it neutral, I told myself. Listen, watch. Don’t provoke. And make sure the minute I walk in that there are definitely others in the apartment.

  I chose a cab over the subway to save time but ended up stalled in Christmas shopping gridlock by Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street. I felt flustered and anxious by the time I finally entered the Darby’s huge apartment building. I gave my name, and the concierge called upstairs for clearance.

  “Mrs. Darby says to go right up,” the concierge announced, beaming. He’d obviously detected no homicidal tendencies with Whitney.

  When she opened the door, Whitney had on the same kind of let’s-do-brunch outfit she’d been wearing when I’d been at her apartment before—drapy beige slacks; soft cream-colored blouse; big gold earrings. It looked as if she’d just come in from running an errand because a short, fur-lined jacket lay on one of the straight-backed chairs in the hallway and a brown hobo-style bag was nestled on the table with all the silver-framed photos of her and Cap.

  “Come in, Bailey,” she said. She smiled, but it seemed about as real as her boobs, and there was something distant about her pale blue eyes. Am I an utter fool to be here? I wondered anxiously. But from far off in the apartment, the kitchen I guessed, I could hear the sound of people chatting and bustling about. The kitchen testers. There’s no way, I reminded myself, that she would try anything nasty with them on the premises.

  “I’m sure you’re as busy as I am,” she added. “But I did feel I should share what I know with you.”

  “I’m anxious to hear it,” I said.

  She lifted her hands, flipping over the palms slightly, and turned her head a quarter to the side, as if she was just now considering how we should proceed.

  “Well, why don’t you come on into the living room?” she said. As I followed her there, the chattering receded; the only sound in the living room was from wind whipping along the wraparound terrace. She gestured for me to take a seat on one of the plush, mint-colored sofas. I perched on the edge, and Whitney lowered herself gracefully into an armchair.

  “How have you been, by the way?” she asked. “Cap and I went to the funeral, of course, on Saturday, and we’re still decompressing from that. Were you out there, covering it? I didn’t see you.”

  No, I was getting my ass baked in a local barn, I almost said, just to catch her expression. But I needed to stick to my game plan: stay neutral and not provoke.

  “No, some other reporters were assigned to cover the funeral,” I said.

  She took a deep breath, raising her breasts up like an offering to the gods. “As I made clear before, I’m not in the habit of talking to the tabloid press,” she said. “Cap may represent famous people, but we’re very private ourselves. And I don’t like gossip. It’s evil. But I’ve been thinking about what you said—that Devon might have been murdered. And I don’t want to stand in the way of the truth.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” I said. “You indicated on the phone that this has something to do with Christian.”

  She lowered her head and pursed her lips briefly.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it does,” she said, looking back at me. “Since you and I spoke, I’ve asked myself again and again if anyone had a motive to kill Devon. And I’m afraid Christian had one.”

  I waited, saying nothing. From far off I heard a muted burst of laughter in the kitchen.

  “You may not have been aware of it,” Whitney continued, “but Devon completely ignored Christian last weekend. She didn’t say a word to the man.”

  “But according to Scott, she was the one who’d invited him there.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But, you see, she did that to toy with him. Devon had discovered something Christian had done, something unethical at the agency, and she wanted Cap to tell his boss, Barbara Dern. But before she made certain he was exposed, it seemed she wanted to see Christian twist a little in the wind. Perhaps she was even hoping to use it to her advantage, that he’d become so worried that he’d work even harder for her.”

  “What had he done?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact details—I’m getting this secondhand from Cap. But it has to do with clients from Asia that the agency does business with. The Asians, especially the Japanese, use a lot of Caucasian girls in their ads and magazines. Some models even move over there to kick-start their careers. It’s very much a cash business—the Japanese arrive here with suitcases of money and turn it over to the modeling agencies. Apparently Christian has been negotiating certain rates with Asian clients, collecting the cash, but then indicating lower amounts on the books. He keeps the difference for himself.”

  She laid a hand on her chest and looked off, taking a breath.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “This is so upsetting for me—and it makes my asthma want to rear its head.”

  “How did Devon find out?”

  “I’m not sure. She was always a snoop. She may have overheard something.”

  “And what would happen to Christian if the agency learned the truth?”

  “Oh, more than a slap on the wrist—that’s for sure. Barbara Dern takes no prisoners. She would have fired him, probably even had him arrested.”

  “Is that why Cap seemed to be dragging his heels? He didn’t want to see Christian go to jail?”

  “To be honest, he was thinking more of Devon. If Christian was arrested in the next few weeks and it came out that he was Devon’s booker, it might reflect poorly
on her album. And of course now I feel sick that he waited. Because it may have given Christian the opportunity to kill Devon.”

  “Possibly,” I said, mulling it over. Was this legit, I wondered, or all some kind of setup? “I suggest you tell Detective Collinson this right away. Initially he seemed doubtful that Devon had been murdered, but some details have emerged to change his thinking. I’m sure he’ll find what you told me interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Whitney said, sounding miffed. “That’s all you have to say? Isn’t it a motive for murder?”

  “Sure, it could be,” I said. “The police will look into it. But there are other details for them to consider as well.”

  “Oh, really?” she said, snidely. “You’re not back to pointing the finger at me and Cap, are you?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just loose ends to tie up.”

  “Such as?”

  “There’s actually one matter I’d like to ask you about. Something regarding Devon’s pregnancy.”

  Whitney’s face froze. She lifted a hand upward and touched the corner of her mouth with one of her long slim fingers and then wiped at something that wasn’t there.

  “And what would that be?” she asked after a beat.

  “Were you aware that Devon had an abortion?”

  Even from where I was sitting, I could see the subtle but shocking changes in her face. Her nostrils flared, the rims of her eyes reddened. It was like a rage grenade had gone off inside her, but she was doing her best to contain the explosion. Instinctively I strained to hear the kitchen sounds. With relief I realized I could still detect faint voices in the distance.

  “Who in the world told you that?” she said between clenched teeth.