So Pretty It Hurts

just a couple of steps down the stairs, to throw him her house keys. Dutifully she drew a ring of keys from the pocket of her parka, but there was a begrudging expression on her face as she walked back and handed them to Scott. He locked the door and stuffed the keys in the pocket of his pants, where they created a jagged-looking bulge.

Back inside my room, I dug a pair of jeans out of my duffel bag and slipped them on with a turtleneck sweater. I was relieved to have a few minutes to myself. Already people were popping out of doorways as if they were actors in a British farce, and things were only going to get crazier as the night wore on. I needed a few moments to process everything that had transpired.

According to Laura, Devon had called extension seven for water, saying she didn’t feel well enough to get up. Whatever had killed her—whether it was a heart attack due to an eating disorder or some combination of drugs and alcohol—may have already begun to take hold. But I kept coming back to what I’d witnessed earlier: Devon freaking out in the forest. Devon feeling in danger.

What really mystified me was the second call Laura had received. Laura had assumed it was from Devon, but that wasn’t possible. So why would someone else be phoning the help in the middle of the night?

No matter what had really occurred, this was going to be a huge story—and before long I would need to wake Nash Nolan, the editor in chief of Buzz, who would want to break the story online as soon as possible. But I had to talk to the police first. I’d landed in hot water earlier in the fall for filing a story before sharing key info with the cops, and I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

I also felt a huge urge to call Beau. I was feeling a bit shell-shocked over Devon’s death, and it would be good to talk to him about what had happened. But it was one o’clock Arizona time, and he would surely be in bed by now.

A moment later, I knocked on Jessie’s door. She’d thrown on a pair of cargo pants and a brown sweater.

“Thank God it’s you,” she exclaimed as she opened the door. “Tell me what happened. Did she OD or something?”

I shared the sequence of events and the guesses I’d made about cause of death.

“How horrible,” she said. “There wasn’t one single thing I liked about the woman, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy she’s dead.”

“Can I be blunt here? What were you doing in your own room tonight?”

“Oh, God,” she groaned. “You don’t want to know.”

“Lovers’ quarrel?”

“I wish. I’m almost too embarrassed to say. It actually has something to do with you.”

“What? Tell me.”

“Well, everyone else had gone to bed, and we started making out on the couch. There I was, expecting another night like the previous one. And then—with my boob in his hand—he says . . . oh shit, I can hardly stand to say it. He said, ‘Wouldn’t it be fun if Bailey joined us.’ ”

“Oh, jeez.” I groaned. “Was there any chance he was kidding?”

“Well, at first I thought it was just his idea of a joke—he’d had a fair amount to drink. But then he starts whispering about how he’d love to please both of us at the same time. I wanted to cry. No offense, of course. You know you’re hot, Bailey, but I can’t believe he had the gall to suggest a threesome. I just stood up and marched back to my room.”

“Oh Jessie, I’m sorry. You must feel awful.”

“Miserable. I really liked the guy—and what’s worse, I slept with him. My number is already higher than I’d like, and now I’ve wasted a slot on a total asshole.”

“Are you going to feel uncomfortable going up for coffee?”

“Yes—but it beats staying in my room knowing there’s a dead body a few yards away. Speaking of which, what do we do about Buzz? Shouldn’t we be phoning this in? Dead celeb sort of falls under your jurisdiction.”

“I’m planning to call Nash, but I need to wait until the police have had a chance to talk to me. I was in the room, and it’s my obligation to speak to them first.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted us as we entered the living area. Sandy was bustling nervously at the kitchen counter while Scott, Jane, and Cap huddled at the island. Laura Ash was sitting alone at the dining table, appearing glum as all get-out. And a solemn-looking Whitney was on one of the couches, working a pair of knitting needles and a fat ball of yarn.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, approaching the group by the island as Jessie slunk off toward a couch. Cap’s face was pinched in despair. If he had been having an affair with Devon, this experience was a helluva lot worse than simply losing a longtime client.

“We’re trying to put a statement together,” Cap said. “We’d like a few minutes alone, if you don’t mind.”

Trying not to look thrown by the snub, I quickly poured a cup of coffee and joined Whitney and Jessie on the couch.

“This must be awful for Cap,” I said softly to Whitney.

“For both of us,” she said above the steady clicking of her silver needles. “Devon’s been Cap’s client for seven years. I just pray to God she didn’t suffer.”

“Did she have any health problems that you were aware of?”

“Health problems?” Whitney sniffed. “She was only thirty-four. What health problems could she possibly have had?”

“Anorexia. Or bulimia. Some kind of eating disorder.”

“Devon had struggled with weight issues in the past, but she managed to put that behind her. Though I’m sure that will all be dragged out again in your magazine and places like that. This may sound horribly old-fashioned, but where I come from, we still believe that if you can’t say anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”

I wondered if she also believed in unicorns.

“As I told Scott, we’re off the record here,” I said. “This is a tough situation, and Jessie and I want to help in any way.”

“There’s just so much to do right now,” Whitney said. “A statement to the press, funeral arrangements, a memorial service in New York possibly—and here we are, snowbound.”

“Was Jane able to reach Devon’s mother?” I asked.

“Yes, but she apparently wasn’t sober, and Jane’s not sure how much she actually digested. If I had my phone with me, I’d call her myself. I just dread going back to the room alone.”

“Here, use my BlackBerry,” I said, handing it to her in the hope she’d see that I wasn’t the enemy.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting it. She stared at it for a moment, then shook her head and handed it back.

“What am I thinking?” she said. “The number’s on my phone. And it’s probably best for Cap to make the call anyway.”

Scott drifted over a moment later and announced that he had made an executive decision to wake the others and fill them in. Within the next fifteen minutes, Richard, Tommy, and Tory joined us in the great room. Everyone appeared stunned, but there weren’t any tears. From the corner of my eye I watched Richard pour coffee and sink back with his cup into one of the leather armchairs. I was dying to know what was racing through his mind beneath the wild tufts of bed-head hair. He was a reporter too. Surely he was wondering who he should give the story to.

For the next hour and a half we waited, with people sometimes drifting in and out of the room. Finally, at around 5:00 a.m., we heard the sound of a gunned motor, a vehicle forcing its way through the snow on the driveway. Scott rose to go downstairs, and I followed him. He turned once in surprise but didn’t question my presence.

Before anyone could knock, Scott flung open the double doors. Two plainclothes cops were standing in the cold, their coats dusted with snowflakes. They stepped inside and introduced themselves. Detective Ray was a short, beer-gutted guy of about fifty, with a silver skunk streak in his hair. Detective Collinson was tall, slim, and in his midthirties, I guessed. He was what my mother called black Irish—dark hair, charcoal black eyes, and very white