So Pretty It Hurts

medicine cabinet in case their kid decided to chow down on some toxic household cleanser or a bottle of aspirin, but that strategy was no longer recommended by doctors. The problem was that vomiting could sometimes make a poisoning situation even worse. For instance, when you throw up lye, it just scorches your throat all over again.

But why would Devon be toting it around? I wondered. Searching my mind, I seemed to remember reading once that bulimics used ipecac to support their efforts. So perhaps Devon had suffered from bulimia, not anorexia.

Suddenly I picked up the sounds of people barreling down the corridor. I quickly flicked the bathroom light off and stepped back into the bedroom. Two seconds later Scott bolted through the door with Laura in tow.

“She’s dead?” he blurted out. “What happened?” His jeans, which he had clearly thrown on in a hurry, were still unzipped and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his naked chest, covered lightly with greying hair.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “She called Laura just after one o’clock for some water. Laura fell back asleep and finally brought it up a few minutes ago. It looks as if Devon has been dead for at least an hour.”

“Christ, this is a total nightmare,” he said, sweeping his hand through his hair. “What are we supposed to do?”

“You need to call nine-one-one. Do you know what shape the road is in—I mean, has Ralph started plowing it yet?”

“He’s come down with a bad cold and he said he barely made a dent in it.”

“Well, the cops will have a four-wheel drive, so hopefully they won’t have much trouble. But an ambulance or morgue van might not be able to get through. When you speak to the nine-one-one operator, you better tell her about the road conditions here. And you might want to mention that this is a high-profile person.”

He took a few steps closer, and I realized he was about to pick up the phone on the bedside table.

“Scott, I wouldn’t use that phone,” I said. “There’s a chance foul play was involved. We shouldn’t get our fingerprints on anything in the room.”

“Foul play? You think someone killed her?”

“It doesn’t look that way, but that’s up to the police to rule out.”

He sighed, shaking his head in discouragement.

“All right, I’ll go grab my cell phone. Laura, you need to run down to the cabin and wake Sandy—and Ralph, if he’s up to it.”

She moaned, as if he’d just asked her to hike into town.

“Laura, go!” he barked, and she turned on her heels. He no longer seemed like the charming I-won’t-even- mind-if-you-tell-another-guest-to-stick-it-in-his-piehole host from earlier in the evening. I guess finding a dead houseguest will do that to you.

“Where’s Jane’s room, by the way?” I asked as he hesitated in the doorway, looking discombobulated.

“She’s next door on the right.”

“Why don’t I wake her while you’re calling 911? She may have a number for Devon’s parents. Once you’re off the phone, I’d suggest you wake Cap.”

“You’re not planning to phone this in to the night desk at Buzz as soon as I leave, are you?” he asked, studying me intently. I couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was being sarcastic or dead serious.

“The number-one priority right now is to get the police here,” I told him. “But this is going to be a major story, and I will have to cover it—just like a zillion other reporters. You and Cap should work out a statement.”

“I’m telling you right now, then. Everything I say from this point on is off the record.”

“Understood,” I said. “I promise to play fair with you on all of this.”

I didn’t like his testiness, but I could hardly blame him. After he left I surveyed the room one more time, closed Devon’s door, and then hurried to Jane’s room. It took about ten knocks to finally rouse her. When she swung open the door, it was like I’d woken a bear from hibernation. Her dark hair was a mass of frizz, and her mouth was twisted in a snarl.

“What now?” she demanded in a voice hoarse from sleep.

“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Jane. Devon is dead.”

Her eyes widened, and I expected some bold exclamation to follow, but her face quickly relaxed and all she said was, “How?”

“We’re not sure. She died in bed apparently, and it looks like she’s been dead at least an hour. Do you have contact information for her family?”

“She’s just got a mother—no father or brothers or sisters. I have a number for her someplace, but there’s no guarantee she’ll pick up. The woman’s a total lush.”

“Why don’t you try, at least? Scott is calling nine-one-one. Is there anything else you can think of—someone who needs to be informed?”

“You mean, like a boyfriend? Not at the moment. I mean there was someone Wednesday night, but I don’t believe she got his name.”

Note to self, I thought: Do not assign Jane the task of writing my eulogy.

I told her that I was going back to meet with Scott and that we would probably wait in the big barn. She should look for us there and report on whether she connected with the mother. Backing away, I also warned her not to go into Devon’s room and not to make any calls about Devon’s death without consulting with Cap.

“I’m perfectly aware of the need to be sensitive about the media,” she said. “That’s my job twenty- four/seven—or at least it was.”

As I headed back down the hall, Scott reached the top of the stairs. He’d managed to zip his jeans and button his shirt in the time he’d been away.

“The police are on their way,” he reported, coming toward me, “but it’s going to take a while because of the snow, they said. My guess—at least an hour.”

We heard the downstairs door bang open. A moment later Sandy came storming up the stairs, wearing a puffy blue parka over her flannel pajamas, with Laura trailing behind her.

“She’s really dead?” she asked anxiously of Scott.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s in her room—in bed. I’ve already called the police.”

We were positioned just ahead of Devon’s room. Sandy barged past us and started to reach for the doorknob.

“Please don’t go in there,” I told her firmly.

“I’m responsible for this place, and I’ll go in there if I please,” she snapped.

“That could be a crime scene, and the police won’t be amused to learn that you’ve been in there just to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Sandy, she’s right,” Scott said. “Don’t go in the room. This is something the police have to handle. Where’s Ralph?”

“I think he has bronchitis,” she said, her expression sour from having been chided. “I don’t think he can get out of bed.”

To my surprise, the door to Jessie’s room suddenly eased open and Jessie took a half step into the hall, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light. She was all bundled up in the white terrycloth bathrobe.

“What’s going on?” she asked. From the groggy expression on her face, it appeared she had just woken up. Hmmm, I thought. Why hadn’t she been in Scott’s room like the night before?

“Devon is dead,” Scott and I both said in unison.

Jessie’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.

“Look, this is going to be a long night,” Scott announced to all of us. “Sandy, why don’t you go over to the big barn and put on some coffee. We can all hang there. I’m going to wake up Cap—and Christian. They both need to know what’s going on. As for the others, there seems no point in getting them up until later.”

“I have to get dressed first,” Jessie said. She flashed me a look that I couldn’t read and retreated back into her room. Sandy and Laura headed toward the stairs.

I told Scott that I would get dressed too, and then meet him shortly.

“But before you go, Scott,” I said, “I think it would be a good idea to lock the room.”

He looked off, thinking for a second. “Okay, that’s probably smart,” he said. He called out to Sandy, who was