So Pretty It Hurts

It had been sent at 4:46 a.m.

Crap, I thought. Who was it from? I’d told no one other than Beau and Jessie that I was definitely planning to drive to Pine Grove, but all the houseguests knew there was a possibility I’d be there to check out the funeral. Most of them, in fact, still thought I was covering Devon Barr’s death for Buzz. And because I had phoned each of them at some point, they all had my cell phone number. The big question, though, was whether the message sender was someone who really wanted to help me solve the murder—or the killer, wanting another crack at me, since the one with the gypsy cab had failed.

“Let’s meet in town,” I texted back. “It’ll be easier.” And safer for me. I waited a couple of minutes, but there was no return message. It was time to move. I tossed the BlackBerry on the seat next to me and fired up the engine.

As I maneuvered my way out of Manhattan, with the sun rising behind me, I tried to put the message out of my mind for now and concentrate on driving. The traffic was relatively light, but still steady. Headed west on Route 78, I passed mile after mile of dense New Jersey sprawl, and then suddenly, almost magically, there were hills and fields and farms with silos that glistened in the morning sun. A Fox News van zipped past me suddenly, and though I still had two more hours of driving ahead, I wondered if they were headed to the same place I was. I was glad Jessie had given me the heads-up about Thornwell being at the funeral today. I’d be able to keep a look out for him. And knowing Thornwell, he’d have his eye out for me, watchful for wigs, weird hats, and sunglasses, and doing a double take at anyone who looked vaguely like me.

I planned to keep my distance, hanging back at the outer fringes of the crowd. Besides, observing the funeral doings wasn’t the main reason I’d signed on for a road trip today. What I really needed to do was stake out Devon’s mother’s house and see who she was tight with. If someone were in cahoots with her, trying to cripple my career, there was a chance that person would be paying her a visit in private.

I stopped once for a bathroom break and to check my BlackBerry. Another text was waiting. And I didn’t like it.

No. The wrong person might see us. I have vital information.

Nothing about the language gave even a hint about who had written it. It was clear that if I wanted to learn who the sender was and whether he really wanted to help me, I was going to have to stop by the barn on Route 22. I decided not to respond, though. Better to keep the sender a little bit on his toes.

At around ten thirty, two and a half hours after my departure, I exited Route 78, and after short stretches on a couple of two-lane highways, I pulled in to Pine Grove. The town was one of those blink-and-you-miss-it models —with a general store and two churches, one with a few TV vans already parked outside. I drove through the center without stopping, but slow enough to check out the scene. I spotted a bunch of paparazzi, zipped into tired-looking parkas and puffing on cigarettes. Let the games begin, I thought.

I found a parking spot along the curb about two blocks away from the church, and killed the motor. I needed a minute to think. Though I’d planned initially to go straight to Devon’s mother’s house, I had changed my mind. I needed to check out the barn first and make sure I wouldn’t be led into a trap later. I also wanted to see if there was another text.

To my dismay, I discovered that my BlackBerry wasn’t picking up a signal. I was in a dead zone. I cursed, thinking of the problem this now posed. If I came across info today that I needed to pursue further—and quickly— there’d be no freaking way to get hold of anyone. It also meant I couldn’t give anyone a heads-up about my rendezvous at four.

After programming the GPS, I headed toward the mystery barn—and found it easily, right where the message sender had said it would be. Route 22 was a quiet rural road not far from town, and the weathered, slightly dilapidated gray barn sat just off the shoulder on the edge of what appeared to be a cow field—though there wasn’t a cow in sight. I parked the car right in front and looked around. On the opposite side of the road, set far back and on a rise, was a 1970s-style split-level. Surely the barn couldn’t be part of that property. Straining my body around, I glanced out the rear window. A half mile back along the road was an old farm, and I guessed that the barn belonged to the farmer—maybe it was an extra place for storing equipment.

I didn’t like how deserted the road was. And I didn’t like that I’d be meeting someone all alone out here. I decided that the best strategy would be to arrive at least thirty minutes early. That way I’d see the person drive up and could make a decision on how to proceed, based on who was in the car.

And that person, I guessed—whether he or she was someone I knew from the infamous house party weekend or maybe even an acquaintance of Sherrie’s reaching out to me—was probably planning to attend the funeral. The timing suggested as much. The four o’clock appointment left plenty of time for the person to go to the service and then head out here.

Now it was time to check out Sherrie Barr’s happy little home back in Pine Grove. Once again I programmed the GPS. The street turned out to be on the outskirts of town, like an afterthought. Sherrie’s place was a shabby white house, with a sunken porch and bald yard. If Devon had been helping her mother out financially, sending money home after each major ad campaign, there sure was no sign of it. Perhaps Devon had refused to turn over money until Sherrie sobered up, because otherwise she’d only burn through it in drunken stupors. Or maybe Devon had just hated to share. That sounded more like it.

I parked several houses away on the opposite side of the street, close enough to observe the goings-on, but not so near that I would attract attention. There were cars parked all along the front of Sherrie’s house, but I had no way of knowing which belonged to neighbors and which to mourners. Then my eye found a vehicle that looked familiar—a black Beemer. Cap and Whitney had driven a black BMW to Scott’s, though I didn’t remember the license plate and couldn’t be sure this was theirs.

Only time was going to tell. I opened the thermos and poured coffee, and then helped myself to an apple. I’d once joined a police stakeout when I was on the crime beat in Albany, and I knew how mind-numbingly boring it could be. But at least I had an end point today. The service started at two, and everyone would have to be at the church—or at the funeral home if that’s where they were meeting—by at least one thirty.

In the end it didn’t take long for me to see a little action. A black town car suddenly began nosing its way down the street in my direction, the gray-haired driver craning his neck as he looked for house numbers. He pulled up right in front of Sherrie’s. I thought it might be a car from the funeral home, but a minute later Christian stepped out of the house and hurried down the saggy stairs toward the car, holding his black leather coat closed with one hand. The expression of disgust on his face suggested he was contemplating getting deloused as soon as he returned to Manhattan. I slunk down slightly in my seat, but he was situating himself in the backseat of the town car and never glanced in my direction. It made sense that he would have stopped by to offer his condolences. But what else had been discussed? I wondered.

Ten minutes later Cap emerged from the house, looking dapper as usual in his camel topcoat. I slunk back down again and raised the binos to my eyes. He looked distracted. Just like Christian, he had a legitimate reason to be visiting Sherrie, but was there a second agenda? He surveyed the street and then unlocked his car door. While he had his back to me, I slid all the way down in the seat, not wanting him to catch even a glimpse of a person in the car. As I heard his BMW cruise by, I wondered where Whitney was. I couldn’t imagine her not attending the service with Cap. Maybe she was coming separately—or she might even be inside with Sherrie.

The next two hours dragged. It was like sitting in an airport after they’ve announced your plane needs a new part before it can take off. At around twelve thirty there was a flurry of activity. A couple of local types arrived, carrying platters covered with aluminum foil, probably the standard death-in-the-family cold cuts and tuna casserole. They reemerged from the house ten minutes later.

I ate my sandwich but avoided more coffee, knowing I’d only have to pee. There were no more comings and goings. I glanced at my watch. One twenty. Probably the only action I was going to see now was Sherrie coming out for the funeral, and sure enough, a minute later another black town car pulled up, this one so shiny it had to be from the funeral home. The driver, neatly dressed, rapped on the door and was ushered inside.

But then another car moseyed down the street and came to an abrupt stop, a dusty white VW Passat that seemed incongruous among the pickup trucks and old Fords on the block. And goodness gracious, guess who slowly hauled himself out of it? None other than Richard Parkin. Was he coming to tell Sherrie just what a piece of shit her daughter was? Or explain that he’d let bygones be bygones? Or to pay Sherrie off for lying about me?

I let a story play out in my mind. Richard had killed Devon, convinced that her death would be blamed on her own self-destructiveness. But then I started poking around, raising other theories. He quickly hatched a plot to undermine me. And who better than another journalist to realize how disastrous Sherrie’s call to my boss would be