So Pretty It Hurts

For the next hour or so we all just sat around, bunched fairly close together as if we were on a lifeboat in the Atlantic. The lack of electricity meant no music and no coffee machine, though Sandy put out stuff for tea because the stove ran on gas. The two wood-burning stoves in the great room provided some heat, but the room could hardly have been described as toasty warm.

After a while Scott suggested poker, but only he, Tommy, and Richard played. Whitney pulled her yarn and knitting needles out of a bag and started clicking again. The rest of us leafed through books and magazines by candlelight and picked at the remains of our dinner. We ran through several bottles of wine, about 50 percent of which was consumed by Richard.

At around nine thirty, Ralph showed up with an update. The power was out all over the area, and it would probably be out through part of the next day. According to the most recent weather report, the temperature would rise again in the morning, and he was pretty sure he could have the road in shape sometime before noon. He and Sandy had rounded up more flashlights, and he distributed one to each of us and then deposited several on top of the big island.

“We’ve got plenty of candles, too,” he said gruffly, “but we’d appreciate it if you rely mostly on the flashlights. The last thing we need right now is a fire.”

I wasn’t looking forward to heading back to my room, but after Ralph left, people started to drift away, the beams from their flashlights bobbing spookily as they descended the stairs. There seemed to be no point in hanging around. Jessie barely made eye contact with Scott when we said good night and then practically attached herself to my hip. I took a glass of wine with me.

“If it weren’t for Mr. Kinky Pants, I would have stayed over there for hours,” Jessie whispered as we reached our rooms. “I dread the idea of being back in my room alone.”

I smiled woefully, in total sympathy with how she was feeling.

“I really don’t believe anyone will try to get into our rooms tonight,” I said, “but just to be on the safe side, why don’t you pull a chair or table in front of your door? Or if you really want, you can bunk down with me.”

“You don’t know how close I am to saying yes to your offer. But if Scott found out tomorrow that we’d shared a room, he’d end up walking around with a boner until we left.”

I smiled. “Just knock on my door if you get scared, okay?”

Once in my room, I took my own advice and dragged an end table over the floor and lodged it against the door. The gas fueled wood-burning stove had been lit and was giving off decent heat. Despite Ralph’s warning, I lit the scented candle from the bathroom, placed it on the table by the armchair, and then collapsed, my legs tucked underneath me and BlackBerry in hand. I tried Beau again, with the little bit of power I still had in my phone. Never expecting a power outage, I hadn’t bothered to charge it earlier. Once again, I reached only Beau’s voice mail.

“Hey,” I said. “Not sure when your plane is due. Call me, will you? Some crazy stuff has happened up here, and I would love to talk to you.”

I started to press disconnect but instead gave him a brief description of Devon’s death and how we’d been held hostage by the storm.

The flames from the candle and the wood-burning stove created phantomlike shadows that danced on the walls. I sipped my wine, trying to sort through everything that was jostling around in my brain. I was so immersed in my thoughts that I almost didn’t hear the sound of someone knocking on my bedroom door. Jessie, I thought. She had obviously decided not to tough it out.

Holding the candle, I crossed the room and pulled the table away from the door. I opened it just a hair. Surprise, surprise. Jane was standing there, flashlight in hand. Her mass of dark hair was pinned to the top of her head and she was wearing a pink sweatshirt.

“Did I wake you?” she asked without sounding as if she cared.

“Nope.”

“Mind if I come in? I want to talk to you.”

“Sure,” I said as she followed me into the room with a curious glance toward the table I’d used as a barricade.

“I’m sorry if I was rude earlier,” she said. “This hasn’t been a breeze for me, as you might imagine.”

“Devon’s death—or working for her?”

“Both.”

She’d lowered the flashlight, and was illuminated only by the light of the candle. Her dark brown eyes were hollows in her large face.

“So what’s on your mind?” I asked.

“I Googled you during the day, and I was pretty surprised by what I saw.”

“How so?”

“You’re a really respected crime reporter, aren’t you? You don’t write all that crap about who’s screwing who or who gave the paparazzi a beaver shot while getting out of the car.”

“No, I don’t write that stuff,” I said. What was she up to? I wondered. An ornery bear like Jane didn’t start acting all nicey-nice without a damn good reason.

“You think Devon’s death is going to be a big story?” she asked. “I mean, will it be all over the news for days and days?”

“That’s going to depend a lot on what the autopsy reveals,” I said. “If it turns out that Devon died from complications from an eating disorder, it will make the cover of all the tabloids this week and then there’ll be some follow-up the next week about which rock stars showed at her funeral. And I assume the morning shows will all do segments on bulimia and anorexia. But then it will probably quiet down—except for maybe one long piece by someone like Richard in Vanity Fair. Why—are you worried about how the media circus will impact you?”

“Yeah—I mean, of course. But I don’t understand why you think the story will die so quickly. Remember Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t her story go on and on for weeks?”

“Yeah, but that’s because there were all those crazy layers—like who was the baby’s father. When details keep unfolding each week, then the press stays on a story.”

“I see what you mean.”

“If Devon had been dating anyone hot right now, that would provide a little extra drama, but as you pointed out, she was single at the moment.” I paused, watching Jane bite her chubby lower lip in the candlelight. “Right?”

“Ummm, I guess.”

“If there’s something you want to talk about and it’s pressworthy, I promise not to attribute it to you in any way.”

“There is something, actually,” she said. She looked off in this exaggerated way, as if she was trying to make up her mind to tell me, but I sensed it was for show, that she’d come to my room for just this purpose. “I didn’t say anything to the police about it—because it clearly doesn’t have anything to do with Devon’s death—but I feel I should tell someone. I mean, it just seems wrong not to. And since you’re interested in the facts, and not just idle gossip—”

Spit it out! I wanted to shout, but I knew better than to pounce.

“I’m happy to listen,” I said, “but only if you feel like sharing.”

She turned her eyes back toward me.

“It’s Cap,” she said. “There was something going on between him and Devon.”

I’d had my suspicions, of course, but the news gave me a little jolt. And it certainly shed fresh light on the words I’d overheard Cap say on the deck. Devon’s “You’d better tell her” comment must have referred to Whitney after all.

“A little fling—or more like a full-blown affair?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, since I only realized this weekend that something was definitely up with them. I always thought there might be something, but I never had any evidence. Then yesterday, I spotted them kissing in the woods.”

“Do you remember what time?” I asked. I wondered how this particular incident connected to the crying jag of Devon’s that I’d witnessed near the outbuildings.

“Umm, not long after breakfast, I’d say. I didn’t want to do the whole hiking thing, but Scott said there was a pretty stream down an easy path and I decided to go wander down there. I didn’t even know Devon had left her