So Pretty It Hurts

“Hello, Whitney,” I said in reply.

“Have you got a moment to talk?” she asked. So much sweeter-sounding than the last time we’d spoken, but a warning siren was already going off in my brain.

“Sure,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “The last time we met, you didn’t seem to enjoy talking to me.”

“I know I seemed impatient that day, but I hope you understood what an awkward position you’d put Cap and me in. However, there—there’s something you need to know the truth about.”

“About Cap?” I asked, more than curious where she was headed.

“No, not about Cap, for goodness sake. Why do you keep insisting that this is all about Cap? I need to talk to you about Christian.”

Christian. Was there really something there? Or was she purposely leading me astray?

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

“It needs to be discussed in private—I don’t want to get into it on my cell phone. Can you come by my apartment again?”

The siren sound in my head was nearly deafening now. I wanted to hear what she had to say, but I couldn’t take any chances.

“Uh—,” I said, unsure of what to suggest. Should I invite her to my place? Or some kind of neutral ground— preferably with professional snipers posted nearby. “I have a pretty busy day ahead. Would it be possible for you to come downtown to my neck of the woods?”

“I wish I could,” she said. “But I have two women here testing recipes all day for my cookbook. I don’t want to leave them alone in the apartment.”

Clearly, I told myself, if she were the killer, she wouldn’t pull anything in front of two recipe testers. It was hard to imagine her chasing me around the kitchen with a butcher knife while her helpers whipped up a platter of pralines.

“All right,” I told her. “When?”

She said in an hour. I used the time to think through the best strategy to use. Keep it neutral, I told myself. Listen, watch. Don’t provoke. And make sure the minute I walk in that there are definitely others in the apartment.

I chose a cab over the subway to save time but ended up stalled in Christmas shopping gridlock by Macy’s on Thirty-fourth Street. I felt flustered and anxious by the time I finally entered the Darby’s huge apartment building. I gave my name, and the concierge called upstairs for clearance.

“Mrs. Darby says to go right up,” the concierge announced, beaming. He’d obviously detected no homicidal tendencies with Whitney.

When she opened the door, Whitney had on the same kind of let’s-do-brunch outfit she’d been wearing when I’d been at her apartment before—drapy beige slacks; soft cream-colored blouse; big gold earrings. It looked as if she’d just come in from running an errand because a short, fur-lined jacket lay on one of the straight-backed chairs in the hallway and a brown hobo-style bag was nestled on the table with all the silver-framed photos of her and Cap.

“Come in, Bailey,” she said. She smiled, but it seemed about as real as her boobs, and there was something distant about her pale blue eyes. Am I an utter fool to be here? I wondered anxiously. But from far off in the apartment, the kitchen I guessed, I could hear the sound of people chatting and bustling about. The kitchen testers. There’s no way, I reminded myself, that she would try anything nasty with them on the premises.

“I’m sure you’re as busy as I am,” she added. “But I did feel I should share what I know with you.”

“I’m anxious to hear it,” I said.

She lifted her hands, flipping over the palms slightly, and turned her head a quarter to the side, as if she was just now considering how we should proceed.

“Well, why don’t you come on into the living room?” she said. As I followed her there, the chattering receded; the only sound in the living room was from wind whipping along the wraparound terrace. She gestured for me to take a seat on one of the plush, mint-colored sofas. I perched on the edge, and Whitney lowered herself gracefully into an armchair.

“How have you been, by the way?” she asked. “Cap and I went to the funeral, of course, on Saturday, and we’re still decompressing from that. Were you out there, covering it? I didn’t see you.”

No, I was getting my ass baked in a local barn, I almost said, just to catch her expression. But I needed to stick to my game plan: stay neutral and not provoke.

“No, some other reporters were assigned to cover the funeral,” I said.

She took a deep breath, raising her breasts up like an offering to the gods. “As I made clear before, I’m not in the habit of talking to the tabloid press,” she said. “Cap may represent famous people, but we’re very private ourselves. And I don’t like gossip. It’s evil. But I’ve been thinking about what you said—that Devon might have been murdered. And I don’t want to stand in the way of the truth.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” I said. “You indicated on the phone that this has something to do with Christian.”

She lowered her head and pursed her lips briefly.

“Yes, I’m afraid it does,” she said, looking back at me. “Since you and I spoke, I’ve asked myself again and again if anyone had a motive to kill Devon. And I’m afraid Christian had one.”

I waited, saying nothing. From far off I heard a muted burst of laughter in the kitchen.

“You may not have been aware of it,” Whitney continued, “but Devon completely ignored Christian last weekend. She didn’t say a word to the man.”

“But according to Scott, she was the one who’d invited him there.”

“Yes, that’s true. But, you see, she did that to toy with him. Devon had discovered something Christian had done, something unethical at the agency, and she wanted Cap to tell his boss, Barbara Dern. But before she made certain he was exposed, it seemed she wanted to see Christian twist a little in the wind. Perhaps she was even hoping to use it to her advantage, that he’d become so worried that he’d work even harder for her.”

“What had he done?”

“I’m not sure of the exact details—I’m getting this secondhand from Cap. But it has to do with clients from Asia that the agency does business with. The Asians, especially the Japanese, use a lot of Caucasian girls in their ads and magazines. Some models even move over there to kick-start their careers. It’s very much a cash business —the Japanese arrive here with suitcases of money and turn it over to the modeling agencies. Apparently Christian has been negotiating certain rates with Asian clients, collecting the cash, but then indicating lower amounts on the books. He keeps the difference for himself.”

She laid a hand on her chest and looked off, taking a breath.

“Forgive me,” she said. “This is so upsetting for me—and it makes my asthma want to rear its head.”

“How did Devon find out?”

“I’m not sure. She was always a snoop. She may have overheard something.”

“And what would happen to Christian if the agency learned the truth?”

“Oh, more than a slap on the wrist—that’s for sure. Barbara Dern takes no prisoners. She would have fired him, probably even had him arrested.”

“Is that why Cap seemed to be dragging his heels? He didn’t want to see Christian go to jail?”

“To be honest, he was thinking more of Devon. If Christian was arrested in the next few weeks and it came out that he was Devon’s booker, it might reflect poorly on her album. And of course now I feel sick that he waited. Because it may have given Christian the opportunity to kill Devon.”

“Possibly,” I said, mulling it over. Was this legit, I wondered, or all some kind of setup? “I suggest you tell Detective Collinson this right away. Initially he seemed doubtful that Devon had been murdered, but some details have emerged to change his thinking. I’m sure he’ll find what you told me interesting.”

“Interesting?” Whitney said, sounding miffed. “That’s all you have to say? Isn’t it a motive for murder?”

“Sure, it could be,” I said. “The police will look into it. But there are other details for them to consider as well.”

“Oh, really?” she said, snidely. “You’re not back to pointing the finger at me and Cap, are you?”