So Pretty It Hurts (18 page)

“What I’d really like to concentrate on for the moment is Devon and this past weekend,” I said, rushing off the subject. “I have a few big concerns.”

“As long as we’re still off the record, I’m willing to talk with you,” Scott said. “Because I’ve got a vested interest in knowing as much as I can. That incident with the doors still bugs the hell out of me. Why would someone pull a fucking stunt like that?”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss. Have you any idea yet who might have done it?”

“The cops checked for fingerprints on the branding iron and apparently didn’t find any. Of course, what good would it do? They don’t have any of the houseguests’ prints to compare anything to.”

“And you didn’t turn up any clues yourself?”

“Just a small one courtesy of Cap on Sunday. His bedroom was at the base of the stairs in the guest barn, and not long after the time you took your spill, he woke to the sound of someone bounding up the stairs.”

That seemed to be another clue pointing to Jane. Because she was the only one on the top floor besides me, Jessie, and Devon—and Devon sure as hell hadn’t done it. Scott eyed me questioningly, as if he suspected I knew something. But I wasn’t going to out Jane to him.

“Let me think about that,” I told him. “Anything else that emerged later? Anything that Ralph or Sandy might have noticed?”

“About the night raider?”

“Or about Devon. Her death. Things leading up to it.”

“What do you mean? What are you suggesting, exactly?”

“Frankly, I’ve been wondering if Devon might have been murdered. Like I mentioned to you on Sunday, she told me she was afraid that someone
knew
something. And then suddenly she was dead.”

He shook his head, borderline exasperated. “I know you were hot on some theory like that last weekend, and I admit I had moments of concern—the stuff pinched from her bathroom, the missing keys. But the police were very clear. She died due to her eating disorder.”

“But what if someone pushed it along a little? She kept complaining that the bottled water tasted funny?”

Scott snorted. “Wait, are you suggesting someone doctored the water? Yeah, Devon complained about the water, but she also said the sheets were itchy and the sink in the bathroom didn’t drain fast enough. And besides, who would want her dead? She was making a load of money for most of us.”

“Do you think there’s any chance Cap and Devon were having an affair?” I asked.

“No way,” he said emphatically. “Skinny rocker was more her type. Though I sure as hell hope she appreciated all Cap had done for her. When he first took her on, I bet he thought her career would evolve into something beyond modeling—movies, or even reality TV, à la Heidi Klum. From what I hear, though, she was a total dud in front of a video camera. But then he found out she could sing, and he really pushed her. I believe her career as a performer could have been big. I’m not talking Rihanna or Katy Perry big, but still, a major success.”

“You said you
hope
she appreciated Cap. Why wouldn’t she?”

“Devon was fickle. She changed her mind easily. I don’t think there was any immediate danger of her dumping Cap, but I could see he was very careful with her—bending over backwards to please her. When she said itchy sheets, he made damn sure they got changed.”

“And what about her relationship with Christian? Could that have been strained?”

“
Strained
? I hardly think so. She asked me to include him.”

“But Tory told me Devon gave him the cold shoulder all weekend.”

“Maybe she was—”

He’d been gesturing as he spoke, and when he paused, his hand did too, midair above his coffee cup.

“What?” I prodded.

He made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort.

“There may have been something up, now that I think about it,” he said. “I’d arranged the place cards on the table for dinner and Sandy told me that at around seven o’clock, Devon came in and switched a few of the cards around. I figured it was so she could sit next to Tommy and fondle his groin with her foot. But originally she’d been seated next to Christian. Maybe the real story was that she didn’t want to sit next to him.”

He drained the last of his coffee cup, and I knew he was going to want to be on the move soon. I started poking with a fork at my untouched omelet in the hopes of encouraging him to hang around. But it didn’t work. He pulled his wallet from the pocket of his pants.

“Look, I know you have to split,” I said, “but I’d love a phone number for Sandy—and one for Laura too. I want to double-check with them that nothing seemed amiss.”

“I already talked to them before I left,” he said.

“But something may have occurred to them since then. If we want to get to the bottom of this, I think it’s essential to talk to them.”

“All right,” he said, reluctantly. “But I don’t want them harassed in any way.” He tugged an iPhone out of his coat pocket, asked for my cell number, and then texted me numbers for both women. “And this is a two-way street, remember?” he said. “If you learn anything important, I want to know.”

“Sure,” I lied.

I tried to pick up the check, but he insisted and tossed down a tip that was almost as much as the bill. Out on the street, he buttoned his coat with one hand and then pulled the collar up against the cold.

“Are you going to the funeral service?” I asked as people rushed by us on their way to midtown offices.

“Of course. I assume you’ll be covering it?”

“Probably not,” I said, fighting the urge to look away. “I’ve got other things to do on the story.”

“
Really
?” he said. “I would have thought that the funeral would be one of the plums of covering Devon Barr’s death.”

There was that goading thing again. A thought flashed in my mind: Could I have annoyed Scott so much that he’d tried to derail my career with Sherrie’s help?

I didn’t say anything, just studied his face. He didn’t give anything away.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll see our friend Richard out there,” he said. “I bet he’s all over this”

“Actually, he told me he probably wasn’t going to do a story on Devon, after all.”

“Don’t kid yourself. He was probably trying to throw you off the scent. He’s more than interested in Devon Barr. In fact, he nearly begged me to let him come last weekend. Since it meant a possible story in
Vanity Fair
, I was hardly going to turn the man down.”

“But—,” I said, flipping through my memory. “I thought you’d
invited
him—because you wanted him to do a story.”

“Nope,” he said. “I ran into him at a party, and somehow the weekend came up. He nearly foamed at the mouth when I told him Devon was going to be there. He all but guaranteed me the story if I let him freeload.”

I knew I wasn’t remembering incorrectly. Richard had made a point of saying that Scott had pressed him into coming. Why had he lied to me? I wondered.

Scott glanced toward Seventh Avenue, obviously checking out the cab situation.

“By the way, have you met Devon’s mother before?” I asked hurriedly.

“No,” he said, bluntly. “The music business isn’t like college basketball, where you have to meet the players’ mommies before you sign them. Look, I really have to go.”

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks again for your time.”

He stepped off the curb and shot up his hand for a cab. Not surprisingly for a guy with his power aura, one jerked to a stop ten seconds later. Unexpectedly, he turned back to me.

“Since you and Jessie are such good buddies,” he said slyly, “my guess is that she shared the details of our little misunderstanding Saturday night.”

“More or less,” I said lightly. I didn’t want to offend the dude in case I needed him later. “But I’m not judgmental. One person’s idea of fun can sometimes be way too kinky for someone else.”

“What if it wasn’t kinky I was interested in? What if I said I just hadn’t been able to take my eyes off you from the moment we met?”

Oh, please, I thought, who was this guy trying to kid? And I’d want a date with him about as much as I’d like to be hurtling down his stairs again. At a loss for words, I smiled weakly at him.

“Maybe when this is all behind us, I can prove it to you over dinner,” he said.

“Actually, I’m seeing someone,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”

He didn’t look so happy as he slid into the cab.

Of course it took
me
ten minutes to find a taxi. I should have opted for the subway, but I was too antsy. There were a couple of things I needed to do, stat.

I tore off my coat the minute I stepped through the door of my apartment and didn’t bother to hang it up. The first thing I did was call the number Scott had sent me for Laura. Though I’d requested Sandy and Laura’s numbers, I’d been creating a bit of a smokescreen; it was only Laura who interested me at the moment, and I wanted to reach her before Scott had a chance to warn her I might be making contact.

She answered with pop music playing in the background. I had the sense she was at home, maybe still in her jammies. When I identified myself, she sounded less than pleased.

“I thought I’d just check in and see how you were doing,” I said.

“How did you get this number?” she asked warily. “Who gave it to you?”

“Scott did. He knows I’m calling you.”

“I’m really busy right now. It’s not a good time to talk.”

“I understand,” I said. “But it’s very important for me to clarify a few details with you. Some of the information you gave me doesn’t gel with what else I’ve learned.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tommy Quinn told me he went to your room just after one on Saturday night and had sex with you. That would have been good to know, because it explains why you didn’t go to Devon’s room right away.”

“What?” she exclaimed, faking shock. “That’s a lie.”

“You know, Laura, it’s against the rules to lie to the press. It’s not as serious as perjury, but you can still get in trouble.” She seemed naive enough to fall for it.

“Are you going to
print
this?” she asked. She suddenly sounded distraught.

“No, I’m playing nice, and if you’re straight with me, I won’t print what Tommy said. I just want to know what really happened.”

“Because if my mother finds out . . .” She was nearly wailing now.

“You have my word,” I said.

“Okay, yes. He came to my room. Right after Devon called. I was afraid if I went up there to bring her the stupid water, she’d come up with something else for me to do, and he would just get tired of waiting.”

“And when he left, you finally went up there.”

“Yes. That’s when I saw you.”

“What about what you said about the other phone call? Was there really another call?”

“Yes. I swear that part is true. But I have no clue who it was.”

I grilled her for another minute, just making sure there was nothing she was leaving out. I was pretty sure she was being truthful this time, terrified of being busted by the journalism police I’d conjured up in her mind.

As soon as I hung up, I hurried to my home office and went online. I was more than curious as to why Richard had misled me about his reason for going to Scott’s. Though I’d done a search through some of the articles by and about Richard Parkin, it had been only cursory and I hadn’t gone very far back. Time for a closer look.

There was a ton of stuff to wade through around the time each of Richard’s books had been published, and then there were large gaps in between with just a smattering of press on him, usually related to a provocative, or even incendiary, comment he’d lobbed on the Charlie Rose or Bill O’Reilly shows. He believed that religion was indeed the root of all evil, considered Gen Y the most vile generation in history, and thought there should be a fat tax, requiring overweight people to pay more than the rest of us. Nothing at all suggested he had a reason to hate Devon Barr. At
her
weight, she certainly hadn’t put a strain on government resources.

When I’d gone back a decade, I was tempted to stop. It seemed pointless to search any further. But there wasn’t much left—just a few UK stories—and I was curious enough to continue. Richard had come to America twelve years ago after stints at various Fleet Street papers, where he’d built a reputation for not only breaking news but also writing brilliantly.

I found a profile from fourteen years ago and opened it. There were pictures, too, including one of Richard walking in front of a stone wall on a cobbled street, looking slim, handsome, and grim. Farther back there was a cluster of people, their jaws slack. I glanced down at the caption and caught my breath.

“Journalist Richard Parkin leaving the funeral of his half sister, runway model Fiona Campbell.”

Chapter 17

I
reread the caption twice, totally shocked. There was no story accompanying the picture, so I Googled Fiona Campbell. I found only one tiny reference to her, in an article published the year before her death. It was about the party and drug scene in London. I wondered if drugs were behind her tragically early death.

I knew what I’d found had to be significant. Doing the math, I realized that Fiona was probably working as a model at the same time Devon’s career was exploding. And someone—yes, it was Jane—had told me that Devon kept a place in London, that she felt at home there. Maybe that’s where she had worked early in her career. And if that was the case, there was a good chance she would have known Fiona.

I smiled to myself as a memory fought its way into my conscious brain. Richard and I, sitting in the great room the morning after Devon’s death. I’d asked for his impressions of Devon that weekend. And he’d made the comment about how models liked to smoke. I’d been surprised, wondering how he would know that. Almost immediately afterward, he’d left the room.

So
had
the two girls actually known each other? And was that why Richard had maneuvered to be in Devon’s presence on the weekend? Perhaps he’d never had any particular interest in tracking Devon down, but when he’d heard that she was going to be at Scott’s, he decided that it would be a chance to talk to her about his sister, to learn what he could. But I’d never seen Richard interacting with Devon for even a second. He’d just watched her, sometimes out of the corner of his eye.

Quickly another thought charged across my brain. Richard may have had an ulterior motive when he secured the invitation for the weekend. What if Devon and Fiona had been into drugs together, and that’s how Fiona had died? What if Devon had actually encouraged Fiona’s drug use? Richard might have held her responsible and then jumped at the chance to confront her.

And that could be the reason Devon had looked so frightened that day in the woods—Richard may have just ambushed her. After our walk, while I’d idly checked out the buildings on the property, he had headed toward the large barn, but he could have bumped into Devon on the way and initiated a showdown with her. It was, after all, only ten minutes or so after the hike that I had found Devon sobbing. And maybe a verbal bitch-slapping wasn’t all Richard had arranged for the weekend.

I was going to have another little chat with the cagey Richard Parkin. But first I needed to learn more about his sister. For the second time in a couple of days, Cat Jones’s name popped into my mind. Before she’d taken over
Gloss
magazine, she’d been the editor in chief of a hip downtown magazine called
Get
, where I’d worked as well, and there was a chance she knew Richard, or at least was friendly with people who did.

I phoned her office, and of course her assistant picked up. Cat hadn’t answered her own phone since the 1990s. I wasn’t surprised when I was handed the “Unfortunately, Cat is in a meeting right now—may I have her call you back?” line, but I
was
surprised when the assistant suddenly asked me to hold, as if someone had gestured to her. When she released the hold button, she offered an update. “Cat says she will call you back in twenty minutes. What number can she reach you at?”

So I had piqued Ms. Jones’s curiosity. She probably thought I was calling with hot industry gossip, which Cat absolutely thrived on. When it came to herself, she of course favored only flattering chatter and tidbits, especially press items accompanied by fetching photos of her with captions like “
Purrr
fect Comeback” or “Puss in Boots,” but as for anyone else in the media world, she preferred the mean and salacious, even if it was all mere speculation.

While I waited for Cat to return the call, I phoned a rental agency for a car to drive out to Pine Grove the next day. There was no way I could drive my Jeep. Last weekend all the houseguests at Scott’s would have had the opportunity to see it, and I couldn’t take the chance of being spotted in Pennsylvania.

“Well, well,” Cat said when she called back exactly twenty minutes later. “Are you still on your book tour?”

“No,” I said, snorting. “My publisher doesn’t believe in them. But they set me up on a wonderful blog tour. I’ve stayed at some of the best Web sites.”

“I enjoyed your book party, by the way,” Cat said, disingenuously. “Lots of interesting people there.” She had stayed all of fifteen minutes, two of which were spent air kissing and the rest eyeing the
Buzz
reporters I’d invited, as if she had come face-to-face with the last leper colony on earth.

“I was glad you could make it,” I said.

“Though I would have liked more of a chance to talk to you. I honestly didn’t think I’d be seeing so little of you when you went to
Buzz
.”

That was funny. She was making it sound as if
I’d
bolted. And yet she was the one who’d given
me
the boot, when she’d decided to jettison the human interest and crime stories in
Gloss
to make room for pieces like “78 Ways to Apply Body Butter” and “Green Tea: It Does
Anything
You Could Possibly Think Of.” I’d been pissed at first, but in the end I couldn’t blame her—if she didn’t boost circulation fast, her job and her ever-present herd of town cars would be at risk. I’d figured in time we’d manage to restart our weird kind of friendship, but so far it hadn’t happened.

“I’m sure you’re crazed right now, but maybe we could do a dinner after the holidays,” I said.

“I take it that’s not why you’re calling today, though.”

“No, you’re right,” I said, smiling at her little zinger. Cat was the master of those. “I need a favor—or rather a piece of information. I’m in a bit of a jam, the details of which I won’t bore you with, but I desperately have to get my hands on some facts about Richard Parkin. Do you know—”

“What kind of jam?”

“I promise to tell you when I see you next time, but it would take too long now—and I need to move quickly.”

There was a pause, and I could sense her plum-colored lips forming into a pout and a finger brushing a strand of long blond hair away from her face.

“Well, I never
fucked
him,” she said after a few seconds. “But I’ve certainly met him. I’ve even sat at the same dinner table with him on several occasions.”

“He had a half sister who died about fourteen years ago. She was a model in the UK. Have you ever heard anything about that?”

“God, no. And that surprises me. It’s not like him to forgo an opportunity to milk some human tragedy.”

I sighed, feeling nearly defeated.

“Can you think of any way for me to dig up this info?” I asked, nearly pleading. “It would help if I could talk to someone who knew him during his Fleet Street days.”

“Well, though
I
never fucked him, I know someone who did. Claire Trent. She’s a friend of mine in London. She used to write, but she married a rich banker and now sits around all day eating the proverbial bonbons. Would you like her number?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Do you want to get in touch with her first and let her know I’ll be phoning?”

“Not necessary. I’ll put my assistant back on, and she’ll give you the number. Just tell Claire I suggested you call. She’s looking for diversions these days.”

“Thanks, Cat. I’ll talk to you after Christmas.”

“Right,” she said, as if only seeing would be believing.

When I phoned Claire Trent a minute later, a housekeeper answered, her British accent so thick I could barely make out what she was saying. It sounded as if Mrs. Trent was out but would be returning within the hour. I told her I’d prefer not to leave a message because it was a surprise.

After I hung up, I made coffee and paced around my living room. I was tempted to call Richard right then and confront him, but I knew if I did it without all the facts in hand, I might not be able to elicit anything valuable.

As obsessed as I was about the case, Beau kept intruding on my thoughts. I’d thought I might hear from him this morning, and yet so far nothing. Up until last night, he’d been the one on the offensive, badgering me for contact. Now things were flipped. Once Beau had spotted me with Chris, he’d cast me in the role of bad girl. Did this mean that if I didn’t reach out, I’d never, ever hear from him again?

To distract myself, I checked my email. And lo and behold, the lovely Skyler had finally sent me links to several of Whitney’s stories. I watched each of them, which was about as much fun as cleaning out my wallet. Whitney, it turned out, had been no Diane Sawyer. She was gushy on camera and hyper concerned looking, as if she were reporting live each time from Darfur and she couldn’t help but let her emotions get in the way. I soon found the story on anorexia. According to Whitney’s intro, an “explosion” of cases in Fort Worth had many local parents “worried sick.” The piece was light on science, heavy on emo.

One thing became clear as I watched the rest of the stories, Whitney had definitely been trying to branch out of food stories and into the health arena. In addition to the anorexia piece, there were stories on excessive sweating, skin cancer, women conceiving with donor eggs, and the brilliant Emmy Award–winning series the publicist had mentioned,
The Mite That Roared
. Nothing set off any alarms.

Though an hour wasn’t quite up, I phoned London again. I was still struggling to translate what the housekeeper had just told me when a new voice came on, announcing, “This is Claire.” She was eating as she spoke—perhaps the proverbial bonbons that Cat had mentioned.

I relayed how I’d secured her number and explained the purpose of my call.

“It’s been an absolute eternity since I’ve heard Fiona’s name mentioned,” Claire said. “I would have assumed she was long forgotten.”

“Did you know her personally?”

“I met her just once, at a party with Richard. She was at least a good ten years younger than he was, but he adored her and was very protective of her. She was quite pretty, though hardly what you’d call dazzling. The London fashion shows had started to take off, and I believe she worked regularly in them, but I don’t think she had much luck with photographic work. I suppose that’s where the problems began.”

“What problems?” I asked, feeling my muscles tense.

“She was anorexic. She apparently convinced herself that being even thinner would help secure more jobs.”

“Omigod,” I said.

“I know,” she replied, not knowing, of course, the real reason for my shock. “She died a horrible death. The family had put her in hospital by that point, and she was all hooked up to feeding tubes and the like—but it was too late.”

“I assume Richard was very upset by her death.”

“Oh, yes. He was devastated. We were no longer dating at that point, but we were still friends, and I did my best to comfort him.”

“There’s just one more thing I need to know. Was Fiona friends with Devon Barr? Or do you know of any connection between the two?”

“Ah, Devon Barr. Everyone here is buzzing about her death. And how ironic that she ended up dying the same way Fiona did. Though not so ironic, I guess, when you think of that world. But I digress. Yes, they
were
friends at one point. But there must have been some kind of falling-out, because I remember that Richard didn’t want Devon at the funeral service—and in the end she didn’t come.”

“Do you have a clue what the falling-out was over?”

“I didn’t at the time—Richard never said anything—but in hindsight I suspect it was a competitive thing. Devon’s career was already on fire. Everyone wanted her for their campaigns. Fiona, like I said, was probably never destined to be a star.”

“I appreciate your help,” I said.

“Tell Cat I send my best. I’d love to see her—though not when I have my husband with me. Cat has that funny habit of yearning for what other women have and then trying to steal it for herself.”

I signed off with my heart thumping. Did Richard blame Devon for his sister’s death? Perhaps, feeling less successful than Devon, Fiona had begun starving herself. I shook my head at how stupid I’d been. Over the past few days, I’d dredged up what I could on everyone except Richard, dismissing him as someone with no real connection to Devon. But he’d known her and possibly resented the hell out of her. Had he also wished her dead?

I wanted some face-to-face time with Richard, and I needed a decent excuse. I thought for a few moments and dialed his number.

“Well, if it isn’t the plucky Bailey Weggins,” he said, sounding relatively sober when he picked up. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Oh, just checking in. It’s been a couple of days since we spoke.”

“Oh, please, Bailey. You’ve never just
checked
in with anyone,” he proclaimed. “I’m quite certain you’ve spent your entire life with an agenda.”

I laughed, pretending to be amused.

“Okay, you’ve caught me. I
do
have an agenda. I know you’re having second thoughts about doing a story for
Vanity Fair
, but I’ve stumbled on information that I thought was worth sharing. It’s relevant to both of us.”

“Do tell.”

“Could we meet? I’d like to talk in person.”

I sensed him glancing at his watch.

“I don’t want to pass up a chance for a chat with the infamous Bailey Weggins, but I’m a bit jammed at the moment. Tell you what. I’m meeting a few pals at Hanratty’s for dinner tonight at seven, but right before then I’m going to try to squeeze in a walk in the park. You’re welcome to join me on my walk if you wish.”

“Sure,” I said. “Where and when?”

“I like to stroll about in the Central Park Conservatory. The entrance is on 105th and Fifth. Why don’t I see you there at six thirty?”

“Got it,” I said. That part of the city was like a million miles away from the Village, but if I took the 4 or 5 on the Lex to Eighty-sixth and then the local to Ninety-sixth, it wouldn’t take forever to get there.

“I’ll be meandering around in there. You should see me when you come down the stairs.”