So Pretty It Hurts

I jotted down the names of all the houseguests and considered them one by one. Besides Cap and Whitney, Tory grabbed my interest. After all, she’d morphed into a cross between a bitch and a banshee over the dirty flirting taking place between Devon and Tommy. There was also a chance she’d known what Devon was up to with the ipecac—that stuff was probably common knowledge in the world of modeling. But she’d appeared to be on good terms with Devon when the weekend began, so why would she have come armed with a diuretic? Unless she had it in her own stay-skinny arsenal.

There were other possibilities. Jane clearly hated Devon. And she knew she might have an eating disorder. I couldn’t dismiss Tommy either. Devon had toyed with him. He’d made that comment to me about her being a tease. Maybe she’d jerked him around one too many times.

As for the others present that weekend, none seemed to have any obvious motive for pushing Devon over the edge, but that didn’t mean that they lacked one. For the moment, though, I was going to concentrate on Cap and Whitney—because that’s where the most likely motives lay.

I thought suddenly of Devon’s pregnancy. She’d conceived a little over a year ago. I wondered if the supposed affair between Devon and Cap had been going on for at least that long—and if the baby was his. “You’ve got to tell her” might have actually referred to the pregnancy. Devon may have been urging Cap to come clean about their situation for months and had finally reached the point of being seriously pissed off with her lazy-butt lover.

After finding a number for Cap’s agency through 411, I called his office. The girl who answered exuded the kind of confidence you can only possess if you are twenty-two, wear designer shoes, and have never paid for a drink in your entire life. I gave my name and asked if Cap was free to speak to me.

“Mr. Darby isn’t available,” she said, suggesting with her tone of utter disinterest that as far as I was concerned, he would never ever be available.

“Just put me through to his voice mail then,” I said.

“He doesn’t use voice mail,” she replied. She said it with distaste and disbelief at my suggestion, as if I’d just urged her to check out the new winter shoe shipment at Payless.

“Then please tell him to call me,” I said. “It involves Devon Barr and is extremely important.” I’d added some haughtiness to my tone, thinking that might catch her interest.

Now it was time for a little background research on Cap and Whitney. An Internet search was hardly going to tell me if either of them had the potential to be a devious murderer, but certain details about their pasts might hint at character, temperament, and needs.

I started with Cap. I couldn’t find a whole lot, but his name turned up in a few places and I found one short profile of him in a trade magazine. He had practiced law for a few years and then worked his way into managing talent. His clients included some actors but mostly models. Devon, as Richard had suggested, seemed to be the biggest star he managed, and her death would certainly be a blow to his income. If he was the one who had murdered her, he would have known he’d be killing the goose that laid the golden egg.

There wasn’t much about his personal life, but I learned that his marriage to Whitney was his second. He’d met her just over four years ago, two years after divorcing, and married her within a year. He had no children from either this marriage or the first.

When it came time to check out Whitney, I started with her own Web site. Scott had introduced her as Whitney Darby, but over the weekend I’d learned that professionally at least she used her maiden name—Lee. The bio on the site described Whitney Lee as a motivational speaker, cookbook author (though the book Elegant Texas Food wasn’t slated to be released until next fall), and a media star, which seemed a stretch considering she hadn’t had a regular job in TV since she left the Dallas/Fort Worth market. Her three-year stint at the television station—where she’d covered food and health and won two local Emmys—was described in the kind of glowing terms you’d reserve for someone like Diane Sawyer or Barbara Walters.

Now it was time to dig for info that hadn’t been sugarcoated by Whitney herself. But there wasn’t a ton to be found. Not surprisingly, the station’s Web site had nothing on her anymore, and there were no recent profiles of her. What I did find were pictures. She and Cap apparently relished being seen at major social events, and she liked to dress up, showing off her jewels and, as Richard had suggested, that proud bosom of hers. She’d been shot a fair amount by society photographers like Patrick McMullan.

I found the number for her former TV station on their Web site, and after calling it, asked for the PR department. I told the person who answered that I was a writer doing a profile of Cap Darby and his lovely wife Whitney Lee and just wanted to verify a few facts. It was sort of true. And it wasn’t like I was going around impersonating Johnny Depp’s personal assistant just so I could snare a better table at a restaurant.

The woman who answered drew a complete blank at the mention of Whitney’s name.

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” she explained in a thick Texas accent. “I’ve only been here nine months. Let me connect you to my associate, Skyler McKenzie. She should know. She’s been here six or seven years.”

“Which magazine?” Skyler asked after I’d done my spiel again.

“Gloss,” I lied. It was actually a double lie because not only did I no longer work there but they’d never have done a piece on a hope-to-be-famous-if-my-book-ever-sells type like Whitney.

“Whitney was a reporter here for several years. If you want the exact dates, you’ll have to speak to our HR department instead.”

You never wanted to be banished to HR when you were writing a story. They were the Gobi Desert of information because, fearful of lawsuits, they refused to cough up a freaking thing.

“Oh, I have the dates, so that won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’d just love to include a few highlights of her career, and I thought your office would be best for that. I know she covered mostly food and health. Is that correct?”

I didn’t really give a rat’s ass about the highlights of Whitney’s career, but I wanted to work my way into a conversation about the woman, hoping to score a few juicy details. I heard the rhythmic clicking sound of Skyler’s nails on computer keys as she pulled up info, but I had sensed from her tone that she might have known Whitney personally.

“Yes, that’s right. Food, entertainment. And health stories during her last year.”

“Any examples? It would be great to have a few for my story.”

“Lots of restaurant openings. A segment on which area church served the best flapjacks at their Sunday breakfast. As for health, well, let’s see. There were stories on back pain . . . Botox injections—and a two-parter on allergies.”

She’d listed everything in a fairly deadpan tone, but there was a soupcon of sarcasm when she added the title of the allergy series: The Mite That Roared. I had the feeling Skyler hadn’t been a fan of Whitney’s.

“I know that Whitney won two Emmys. Can you tell me what those were for?”

“Those would be local Emmys, you realize?”

Eww, she really hadn’t liked Whitney, had she?

“Of course. But I’d still like to know what they were for.”

There was a pause as, I assumed, she was scrolling down her computer screen.

“One was for the series on allergies,” she said. “And the other? Umm, okay here it is. She did a two-part series on eating disorders.”

My jaw fell open in total surprise. I couldn’t even find words to respond.

“You know, like anorexia—and bulimia,” she said, as if I might be confused about what she was referring to.

“Yes, sorry. I was just considering what you said. Do you know if that was a topic of special interest to her?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.” I heard papers rustle on her desk—she was growing itchy to end the call.

“Would you be able to send me a link to the eating disorder series?” I asked.

“That’s going to involve some effort,” she said.

“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, but it will help me add a nice splash of color to the story.” Jeez, I was sounding like Martha Stewart.

After sighing audibly, Skyler promised to email me the link when she could.

I tried Cap’s office again, and this time I matched his assistant snip for snip. “I really need to speak with Mr. Darby,” I told her. “Tell him that critical information about Devon’s death has come into my possession.”