So Pretty It Hurts

“What?” I asked.

“I might have some information. But we’re not real generous back here, Bailey. When we offer anything up, it’s always quid pro quo.”

“I’m not opposed to a barter arrangement,” I said. I was tempted to add, “As long as it doesn’t involve you and me in a bar together.”

“Scott Cohen.”

“What about him?” I asked, more than curious but trying hard not to show it.

“I’ve been holding back on running a blind item on him until I score a tad more information. You just spent the weekend at his house. What can you tell me about him?”

“What kind of item?”

“Now, now—I asked first. But I will tell you that it has nothing to do with how he runs his record label. It’s of a more personal nature. So what was it like to be his houseguest?”

I wondered if it had anything to do with Scott’s fondness for threesomes, but I certainly wasn’t going to spill anything.

“Nothing leaps to my mind, but let me mull it over. I’m sure when the dust settles about Devon’s death, something may come to me.”

He looked at me without answering for a minute, his pointer finger pressed against his mouth. I was about to invoke Nash’s name, but finally Thornwell leaned forward in his chair, a signal, I thought, that he was ready to talk.

“How long is this so-called mulling-over going to take?”

“Come on, Thornwell,” I said. “I said I’d try to think of something, and I will—after I get my story out of the way.”

“And what was your question again?”

“Devon Barr. Do you think she might have been pregnant last year?”

He smiled malevolently.

“I don’t think,” he said. “I know. Devon was as preggers as the day is long.”

Chapter 9

Despite the fact that I had seen the photos with my own eyes, the answer still caught me by surprise. For one, Devon hadn’t seemed at all like the motherly type; plus, and more importantly, she clearly hadn’t had a baby. Just a few months after these photos were taken, she was photographed in various spots with Tommy, her tummy flat as a board.

“How do you know for sure?” I asked. “As you pointed out, she wasn’t a blabber.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly get a note from her doctor,” Thornwell said, “but for starters she confided to someone in her inner circle last year that she wanted a baby and she wasn’t going to wait around for the right man to make it happen.”

“That’s not proof that she actually went ahead.”

“There was a report, which we couldn’t confirm, that she’d been seen leaving a fertility clinic. Right after that, she reportedly canceled several big modeling assignments. But here’s the real proof: no drinking or smoking. Devon never stepped out in the evening without enjoying five or six chardonnays and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Suddenly she gives up booze and stops smoking, except for the occasional drag on someone else’s cigarette.”

“If you were so sure, why didn’t you run an item?”

“It was pretty clear she’d had a miscarriage.”

I did a quick calculation. A miscarriage must have occurred between November and February, when the shots of Tommy and Devon hobnobbing together began to surface.

“So when does a little human tragedy get in the way of a Buzz exclusive?” I asked.

“We’re not monsters, you know, Bailey,” he said. “Want to hear what really annoys me? People fuck up their lives, we report it, and yet for some reason, we’re the ones that end up being despised.”

“So in this case you decided to be real nice and keep the info all to yourselves.”

“It was—if you can believe this—actually Mona who decided we shouldn’t run it. Someone told me Mona once had a miscarriage herself and didn’t want to go there. I think she thought it would jinx her somehow.”

“Any idea who the father was?”

“Nope. And my guess is that Devon didn’t either.”

“Are you saying she had a one-night stand?”

“Possibly. She wasn’t dating anyone that we know of at the time. But I’m thinking more along the lines of artificial insemination. All the best girls are doing it these days. And would explain why she was seen at a clinic.”

“Any idea why she’d want a baby? She didn’t seem like the type.” I was still having a hard time wrapping my arms around the idea of Devon raising a kid.

“Haven’t a clue,” Thornwell said. “Maybe someone told her it was the new fashion accessory. You know— hotter than a Birkin bag.”

“But—”

“Bailey, I’ve already been far too generous,” he said, scooting his chair closer to the desk. “And plus I have work to do. Someone very, very big is about to get the boot from her scumbag boyfriend.”

I wandered back to my cubicle, through the cacophony of closing day at Buzz, mulling over Thornwell’s revelation. It was a surprising tidbit to have learned—but in the scheme of things, what did it really mean? The pregnancy had occurred months ago. It hadn’t been successful. And it didn’t appear as if Devon had been all that grief-stricken. Based on her smoking and drinking at Scott’s, it also seemed clear that she’d had no immediate plans for restarting her baby-making efforts.

Of course, the experience may have stressed her out and even eventually contributed to the relapse of her eating disorder. But if someone had murdered Devon, it was hard to imagine that her pregnancy had played a role.

Plopping down at my desk, I saw that the message light on my phone was on; it turned out to be the eating disorder expert I’d left a message for earlier. I quickly called her back, praying not to end up with her voice mail again. Luckily an assistant picked up and put me right through to her.

“Isn’t Buzz one of those celebrity magazines?” she said coolly. “How could I possibly help you?”

“I’m doing a story on the model Devon Barr—who died early Sunday morning. There hasn’t been an autopsy yet, but she’d lost weight lately and she appeared to be avoiding food. There’s even evidence that she may have been taking syrup of ipecac.”

“Oh, dear, how tragic. I’d heard she died, but that the cause was still under investigation.”

“I know you wouldn’t be able to make a diagnosis from a description, but does the fact that she was avoiding food and using ipecac suggest she was suffering from an eating disorder?”

“You’re right—it would be unprofessional of me to diagnose someone like that. But speaking generally, those are indications of an eating disorder.”

“Bulimia?”

“No, anorexia nervosa,” she said.