So Pretty It Hurts

As I sipped my coffee at the counter, I mulled over the missing ipecac. The person who had taken it would have needed a key, and Scott came immediately to mind—he had pocketed Sandy’s keys after using them. At one point while we’d been waiting, he and Sandy had donned coats and gone across to the cabin to check on Ralph and then returned separately. That would have offered him the chance to stop by Devon’s room. But why would it matter to him if the world learned she’d used something to make her puke after meals? He might have had a vested interest in protecting Devon’s reputation when she was alive, but now that she was dead, the fact that she’d been bulimic probably wouldn’t matter.

If it wasn’t Scott who had done it, then who else could have had access to the room? Somewhere on the premises there had to be another set of keys.

As soon as Scott returned from his second round of questioning, Detective Ray called Jane’s name and she trudged down the stairs. Scott walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a carton of orange juice, and filled a glass.

“Can I talk to you privately?” I said after walking over to where he was standing.

“Okay,” he said without enthusiasm. With me following, he edged over to a corner of the room.

“I assume the police asked you how someone might have gained access to Devon’s locked bedroom,” I said, when we were out of earshot of the others.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“Because when I found the body, I saw something in the room that isn’t there anymore—and I told them about it. It was a bottle of ipecac syrup.”

“Ipe—what?”

“Ipecac. It’s a liquid used to induce vomiting. Did you take it from her room?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking that. Of course not. I never went back in there.”

“But someone did. How do you think they got in?”

“Shit,” he said suddenly, and his eyes flashed with recognition. “I bet I know how they did it. I had Sandy’s keys in my pocket, but they kept jabbing into my leg, so I took them out and laid them on the counter by the stove. I picked them back up when the cops arrived because I was going to have to let them into Devon’s room. Someone must have swiped them for a while and then returned them to the counter.”

I looked off, thinking. Though people had hung in the great room until the police arrived, mostly everyone had slipped out at some point for a few minutes. Jane had returned to her room for the phone numbers of people that had to be on the initial contact list Cap was putting together—and later I had overheard Christian say he was going back to his room for his cell phone in case he needed it. Whitney had set down her knitting needles about an hour into our wait and said she was going to take a shower. Cap had walked her back and returned. Tommy had announced the need for a cigarette and disappeared outside. Richard had made a point of saying he was heading downstairs to the loo, and he’d been gone for a good ten minutes. From what I could recall, Tory was the only one who had stayed put, falling asleep for a stretch on one of the sofas. Any one of the others could have snuck the keys into their pocket and let themselves into Devon’s room.

“But look, maybe it’s not that big a deal,” Scott said. “Cap or Christian could have taken the ipecac just so the press would have less to trash Devon about.”

“Was Devon bulimic?”

“I’m only going to talk to you if you guarantee that we are totally off the record.”

“I told you we were. You have my word.”

“It’s pretty clear there was something fucked up about her eating this weekend.”

“Was that a problem for you—the fact that she might have an eating disorder?”

“Look, I’ve had artists who were heroin addicts or alleged rapists. I’m not in the business of passing judgment.”

“Let me shift direction for a second. Was there any reason that you know of for Devon to be frightened this weekend?”

“Frightened? What are you talking about?”

I described what Devon had said to me by the woods. Scott shook his head in disbelief, but he appeared agitated by the news.

“You’re making it sound like The Hound of the Baskervilles up here, for God’s sake. What could have possibly frightened her other than a few field mice running along the wall?”

“That’s what I’m asking you. She said someone knew something.”

He sighed and combed a hand through his hair.

“I haven’t a clue what it could have been,” he said. “As far as I know, she was just being a diva—making it up so someone would take her back to New York.” He tugged at his ear and snickered. “Though if she’d gone back early, it might have foiled her brilliant little master plan.”

“What master plan is that?”

“You saw the intense eye-fucking going on between Devon and Tommy. I’m pretty sure she wanted him back, and that was the main reason she invited him and Tory up here.”

“What was her history with Tommy, anyway?”

“I don’t know all the sordid details, but from what I’ve heard they were hot and heavy last winter, and then sometime this summer he dumped her. They apparently stayed on decent terms, though, and she was the one who set him up with Tory. I like a mix of guests on the weekends, and I was happy to invite some of Devon’s entourage, but I had the last bedroom earmarked for a pal of mine. Until Devon insisted that I include Tory and Tommy.”

“And you really think she was trying to steal Tommy back?”

“It seemed pretty obvious to me. She was trying to bewitch him—with the bare breasts and cocky attitude. But most of all by having him hear that voice of hers.”

“Was Devon supposed to be pretty good friends with Tory?”

“I guess. Though how tight can you be with someone who thinks that the ozone is something you find yourself in right before you have an orgasm? Look, not that it isn’t fabulous chatting with you, but I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

“Just one more question. What’s the latest on the road? Are we going to be able to make it out of here today?” With every inch of snow that fell, the sinking feeling in my tummy was growing worse. I didn’t want to get stuck indefinitely in the barns from hell.

“That’s what I’m going to take care of now. Ralph is too ill to plow, and I need to find a guy who can.”

As he wandered off, I pulled Jessie aside again.

“I’m going to call Nash now,” I told her. “Keep an eye out here, okay? Something kind of weird is going on. I’ll tell you more later.”

Before I could leave, Jane came trudging up the stairs and made a beeline for the muffin basket. I put my plan momentarily on hold and moved toward the island myself, pretending to survey the food. Jane had clearly taken a few swipes at her hair with a brush since I’d last seen her, but she looked just as grumpy—and her face had an unappealing shine to it, which seemed incongruous on such a cold, snowy morning.

“Did you survive your talk with the cops?” I asked, trying to sound collegial but not overeager.

“There was nothing to survive,” she said. “They asked some questions I didn’t know the answers to, and I told them so. I have no idea in the world why Devon suddenly dropped dead.”

She plucked a blueberry muffin from the basket and buttered it. It was clear I was going to have a tough time prying info from her, and I decided it might be smart to warm her up a little bit first.

“It must be tough for you today,” I said, “having to deal with all this. . . .”

“Spare me the Dr. Phil routine, will you?” she said, her mouth still partially stuffed with muffin. “I’m not going to pretend to get all emo over Devon.”

Okay, fake empathy wasn’t working. Time to try a little trash talking.

“I take it working for Devon wasn’t any picnic. How long have you been doing it?”

“Nine fabulous months.”

“How did you end up being her assistant? It’s not exactly the kind of job—”

“You’d expect a fatty to be doing?” she asked.

“No. The kind of job someone just stumbles into.”

“A girl I know told me about it. The longest Devon had ever had an assistant was like six months. She didn’t hit the help—like Naomi Campbell does—but she was a real uber bitch.”