So Pretty It Hurts

writing or whether I’d e-mailed Buzz?

I couldn’t afford to dwell on it at the moment. I needed to write and file my story. I dashed out something fast, hitting all the high points. Devon Barr had died during the night at the weekend home of music mogul Scott Cohen. Cause of death still undetermined. The police were on the premises interviewing the houseguests. I listed who they were. I reread it twice and then e-mailed it to Nash and the deputy editor I generally reported to.

After I sent my story, I went on the Internet and did a quick search about eating disorders. I was surprised to see that they were fatal in up to 20 percent of cases. Most frequently in those cases the lack of vital nutrients caused heart arrhythmia, which led to a heart attack and death.

There was plenty more to read, but I wanted to return to the great room to see what was going on. I splashed cold water on my face just to revive myself, and then left my room. Just as I started toward the stairs, Jessie came bounding up them.

“I know I’m supposed to be standing guard, but I wanted to check in. Did you talk to Nash?”

“Yes, and I filed a story. You’ve had your interview with the cops?”

“Yup—and it was so freaky. I had to fight the urge to confess that I cheated once on an AP history test.”

“What did they ask you?”

“Did I observe anything unusual with Devon this weekend? Did I hear anything during the night? And were people using drugs this weekend? I answered no, no, and no. I can’t believe how pale the head cop is. I wonder if anyone’s checked his platelet count lately.”

“What’s going on with all our guests at the moment?”

“Richard is drinking secret Bloody Marys—I caught him pouring a shot of vodka into his tomato juice. And after Tommy was done with his interview, he threatened to leave with Tory until someone convinced him that he’d never get four feet down the road in his Jag.”

“I’m going back over there now, so if you need a break, go for it,” I said.

“Thanks, I may take a short catnap and then I’ll be back to help eavesdrop. You mentioned that something weird was going on. What did you mean?”

I told her about the missing ipecac and my suspicions about someone being in my room. As I’d anticipated, the last bit of news rattled her.

“Crap—there’s a dead body across the hall from me, and someone’s sneaking into people’s bedrooms. You know those horror movies where you want to shout, ‘Get out of the house!’ at the screen? I’m starting to sense that somewhere, someone is shouting that at us.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You can lock your door when you’re in your room, and the cops have the keys now.”

“And how long are we supposed to stick around here for?”

“Since I’m covering this, it’ll be good to hang here for a while at least. And even if we wanted to leave, we might not be able to. For right now at least, the weather has us trapped.”

As I began to descend the stairs, I heard a commotion on the floor below. I scurried down. A team of two men and two women—with water dripping in rivulets off their jackets—had just trudged into the foyer behind Detective Collinson. I figured they were either from the coroner’s office or members of the crime scene unit or a combination of both. Each one of them eyed me curiously, and then proceeded up the stairs. I stood at the bottom of the stairs listening for a moment. Once they entered Devon’s room, I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I returned to the great room, which turned out to be empty now. The group had obviously splintered after the police interviews, with people returning to their rooms. Unless I went knocking on doors, I wasn’t going to be able to talk to anyone.

When I reentered the small barn, I found Scott and Sandy standing just outside the door of a small walk-in storage area in the foyer. The door of the closet was made of barn wood, and it was flush to the wall, so I hadn’t even known it was there before. The expressions on their faces suggested that something wasn’t right.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“There’s a set of keys missing,” Scott announced. “The backup set to all the guest bedrooms.”

“You’re sure?” I asked Sandy.

“Absolutely,” she said. “I saw them there last night when I was getting supplies. And there was no reason for me to touch them. I’ve got my own set.”

“I’d assumed whoever went back into Devon’s room used the set on the counter,” Scott said. “But this is obviously how it was done.”

I’d noticed the night before that there were no bolts on the inside of the bedroom doors, just buttons on the knobs. It also meant that whoever had the keys could gain access to our rooms when we were sleeping and the doors were locked.

Chapter 6

“You need to tell the police about this,” I told Scott. “Something’s not kosher here.”

He sighed. “All right, I’ll tell Collinson when we meet again.” He headed off, with Sandy in tow. When I reached the top of the stairs a minute later, I saw that Devon’s door was partially open and I could hear people moving around in there.

Back in my bedroom I checked out the Buzz Web site. My story was up. I also saw that the statement Scott and Cap had been working on had been released and incorporated.

I filed a brief update for Buzz, saying that Devon’s body was being examined and police were going over her room—other than that, there wasn’t much to say. I’d no sooner hit Send than one of the deputy editors called me on my cell to discuss coverage. She sounded more ornery than usual, probably from having been called into the office on Sunday.

“Why haven’t you included quotes from any of the houseguests?” she demanded.

“I’m keeping it all off the record up here,” I told her.

“What?” she barked.

“No one would give me a direct quote anyway,” I said patiently. “And if I don’t keep things off the record, people will stonewall me. This way I’m getting lots of info for background.”

“But you—”

“I have to go,” I said, cutting her off. For a woman whose greatest professional success up until now had been being called a whore by Snooki, she had a lot of nerve complaining about how I put a story together.

I checked my watch. I was dying to talk to Beau, and now would be a decent time to call him. I tried his cell, but there was no answer. I realized that he might be headed to the airport or already on the plane.

I kicked off my boots, collapsed into the armchair by the window, and propped my feet up on the ottoman. I needed a few moments to clear my head and just think. Devon’s death, regardless of the cause, was unsettling, but that wasn’t all that was bothering me. Like I’d told Jessie, there was something weird going on. Whoever had taken the keys and then pinched the ipecac from Devon’s bathroom had decided that the truth shouldn’t come out. Why?

And then there was the mystery call to extension seven. That continued to bug me.

After a while of trying to chill, I tugged my boots back on and made my way to the great room. There were certain people I was hoping to extract info from, and I figured the group might start to congregate again in anticipation of lunch. In the passageway I saw that the rain had morphed into a light drizzle. It was foggy out, almost steamy, obviously from the effect of the rain hitting the cold snow. I wondered what luck, if any, Scott was having locating a plowman. Or if the police were assisting in this mission.

The only person there turned out to be Richard. He was on the couch reading his iPad, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses perched midway down his nose. He’d clearly just showered because his hair was still damp around