So Pretty It Hurts

I kept my paltry liquor supply.

“Don’t hug me, don’t even come close,” Landon croaked after he’d opened the door. He was wearing the kind of comfort clothes people fall back on when they’re sick—saggy-bottomed jeans, an old cream-colored zip-up cardigan. “This thing is nasty.”

“Are you sure you’re up for a visit? You sound awful.”

“Yes, the distraction will do me good. Plus, you sounded horrible yourself. What’s going on?”

He ushered me into his lovely living room and took a seat across from me. Even under the weather, Landon, at nearly seventy, looked great, with his short-cropped silver hair and small trim body. He dabbed a crisp white handkerchief to his nose and then urged me to tell him everything.

I described the weekend at Scott’s, giving him the major highlights, then relayed the troubles with Nash, and ended with the nightmare at Beau’s tonight. Landon dabbed at his nose a few times and cleared his throat.

“Bailey, I think you need an attorney,” he announced.

“An attorney?” I exclaimed. “What am I supposed to do? Sue Beau for alienation of affection?”

“No—an attorney to deal with the situation at Buzz.”

“I don’t have the money to pay some high-priced Manhattan lawyer—they’re like seven hundred dollars an hour. Plus, I might make things worse if I bring in legal counsel at this point. The main thing I need to do is find out why this woman is saying this shit. I think someone put her up to it.”

“Any ideas who?”

“It’s got to be one of the people who was at Scott’s last weekend. The person knows I’m digging around about Devon’s death, and they want me to stop. And they must want to stifle me because there’s something to find, something they want kept under wraps. I’m not certain what that is, but I suspect it’s the fact that this person wanted Devon dead and put the diuretic in her water bottles.”

“But that means this person is dangerous. You’ve got to be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Landon let out a little moan. “But you’ve said before that you were going to be careful, and then the next thing I know you’ve got some wild Russian chasing you through a basement with a knife.”

I managed a smile. “In this instance I have no choice but to proceed on my tippy toes. That’s the only way to smoke out the killer, and besides, I can’t let Nash find out I’m poking around after he told me not to.”

I untucked my legs from under me and strolled over to the antique cabinet where I’d set the brandy bottle.

“I’m having another splash—are you sure you don’t want one?” I asked. “Or should I make you a hot toddy?”

“Maybe just a thumb full, thanks,” he said. “Tell me more about Beau? Where do you go from here?”

“Where do we go? I don’t know. Maybe nowhere.”

“But let me play devil’s advocate for a second,” he said. “When Beau left for Turkey, didn’t he tell you that he wasn’t sure if he could make a commitment? It wasn’t till he returned that he said he was ready.”

“That’s right.”

“So technically he did nothing wrong. It’s not like he was cheating on you. And at the time you were involved with that strapping actor, Chris whatever-his-name was. Going to bed with a guy as good-looking as Chris wouldn’t be considered mere infidelity by most people. It’s more along the lines of treason.”

“But I’d been dumped.”

“Like I said—you and Beau were both free agents really.”

“Agreed—technically Beau did nothing wrong. But the whole thing just doesn’t feel right to me. He goes to Turkey and he’s conflicted about what he wants in regards to me, so the way he deals with it is to shag the dig-site slut? It just comes down to the fact that I don’t feel I really know Beau. He’s Beau Regan, International Man of Mystery.”

“Bailey, dear, I wish I could help, but I think you’re just going to have to figure this one out for yourself,” Landon said. “Personally I’d kill for a man of mystery right now. I’d even take a man of misery. We all have to figure out what we can and cannot tolerate.”

I couldn’t blame Landon for not having all the answers, but somehow I’d hoped he would. I slunk back to my apartment feeling absolutely morose. There was a concerned message from Beau on my cell wondering where in the world I was, since he’d found traces of me in the apartment but no explanation as to where I’d disappeared to. Then there was another message, clearly after he’d played his answering machine and realized what I’d heard, saying we needed to talk as soon as possible. I felt no urge to talk it out at the moment, mainly because I didn’t know where I stood in my own mind. Instead I pulled out the desk chair in my tiny home office and began to make a game plan about how I was going to save my ass at work.

One possibility would be to confront Sherrie Barr directly. A search of the white pages online turned up no phone number, but property records indicated she owned a home on Brackton Street in Pine Grove. And yet it was hard to imagine that if I confronted her, she’d spit out the truth. Better to keep focusing on the houseguests; obviously one of them was involved.

I picked up my cell phone and tried Jane again. This time she answered.

“I was hoping we could meet first thing tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve stumbled across some important information that I thought would interest you.”

I figured that bait would entice her regardless of whether she was the killer because she was anxious for dish she could load her book with.

“Can you give me a hint at least?” she said in her typical crabby tone. “You make it sound so clandestine.”

“I think it’s best to do it in person.”

“I have to be at Devon’s apartment all morning tomorrow—I guess you could come by there.”

“What’s going on there?”

“I told her mother I’d take care of some stuff.”

So Jane was in contact with Sherrie. Interesting tidbit. I agreed to meet her at ten and took down the address on Spring Street in SoHo. After I signed off, I left a message on the cell number Tory had given me for Tommy. I tried to sound kind of flirty—which I thought might help guarantee a response. As for Christian, I decided since he also hadn’t returned my call from earlier, I would just show up at his office tomorrow for a chat. I remembered from my Google search that First Models was also in SoHo, so I could combine a trip to Devon’s apartment with a pop-in at the modeling agency.

I changed for bed and crawled under the covers, hoping that being wrung out with fatigue would guarantee I’d fall asleep almost instantly, but I ended up flopping around on the bed like a sturgeon hauled onto the deck of a fishing boat. I’d been dogged by insomnia for nearly two years after my divorce, and I dreaded a recurrence of the problem. But there was no fighting it tonight. My anxiety over my job situation, Beau’s Turkish delight, and the murder of Devon Barr formed a perfect storm that kept sleep at bay for hours.

The next day I apparently looked as bad as I felt, because when Jane opened the door to Devon’s place, her eyes widened.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with morbid curiosity rather than concern. “You’ve got, like, huge circles under your eyes.”

“I’m just a little under the weather,” I said. “I was with a friend who had a cold and I might have caught it.”

“Well, don’t give it to me,” she snapped.

Interestingly, Jane looked better than when I’d last seen her. The snarly expression was gone, her hair appeared to have been tamed with a flatiron, and she had a spring to her step as she led me from the entrance hallway. Devon’s death seemed to be agreeing with her.

“I read your story,” she said as we walked. “The one online. How come you didn’t write up the stuff I told you about Cap and Devon? You sure seemed juiced up when I mentioned it.”

“To be perfectly honest, I haven’t been able to verify it. Cap vehemently denies it.”

“Well, of course he would,” she said defensively. “He’s hardly going to cop to it.”

“And you’re sure you saw it? Could they have just been talking?”

“I saw what I saw,” she said crossly, but there was hardly a ring of truth to her tone.