So Pretty It Hurts (8 page)

“Yeah—I mean, of course. But I don’t understand why you think the story will die so quickly. Remember Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t her story go on and on for weeks?”

“Yeah, but that’s because there were all those crazy layers—like who was the baby’s father. When details keep unfolding each week, then the press stays on a story.”

“I see what you mean.”

“If Devon had been dating anyone hot right now, that would provide a little extra drama, but as you pointed out, she was single at the moment.” I paused, watching Jane bite her chubby lower lip in the candlelight. “
Right
?”

“Ummm, I guess.”

“If there’s something you want to talk about and it’s pressworthy, I promise not to attribute it to you in any way.”

“There
is
something, actually,” she said. She looked off in this exaggerated way, as if she was trying to make up her mind to tell me, but I sensed it was for show, that she’d come to my room for just this purpose. “I didn’t say anything to the police about it—because it clearly doesn’t have anything to do with Devon’s death—but I feel I
should
tell someone. I mean, it just seems wrong not to. And since you’re interested in the facts, and not just idle gossip—”

Spit it out! I wanted to shout, but I knew better than to pounce.

“I’m happy to listen,” I said, “but only if you feel like sharing.”

She turned her eyes back toward me.

“It’s Cap,” she said. “There was something going on between him and Devon.”

I’d had my suspicions, of course, but the news gave me a little jolt. And it certainly shed fresh light on the words I’d overheard Cap say on the deck. Devon’s “You’d better tell her” comment must have referred to Whitney after all.

“A little fling—or more like a full-blown affair?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, since I only realized this weekend that something was definitely up with them. I always
thought
there might be something, but I never had any evidence. Then yesterday, I spotted them kissing in the woods.”

“Do you remember what time?” I asked. I wondered how this particular incident connected to the crying jag of Devon’s that I’d witnessed near the outbuildings.

“Umm, not long after breakfast, I’d say. I didn’t want to do the whole hiking thing, but Scott said there was a pretty stream down an easy path and I decided to go wander down there. I didn’t even know Devon had left her room—the last I’d seen her, she was drinking her stupid green tea in bed. But there she was in this major lip lock with Cap. I didn’t want them to see me, so I snuck out of there and hightailed it back to the barn.”

So then what had Devon been crying about? Her tears hadn’t seemed like the kind you shed when you are hopelessly in love with a man who might not leave his wife. She had said, “Someone knows something.” Had she been afraid Whitney had learned the truth?

“I appreciate your telling me this,” I said. “If there is any reason that it belongs in the story, and I decide to use it, I won’t mention your name. Can I get your cell number, just in case I need to reach you?”

“Sure,” she said. She dictated it as I typed it into my BlackBerry. “I appreciate your listening. There’s something creepy about her manager becoming involved with her like that. Don’t they have a name for that—a Svengali complex or something?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“I better get going. I don’t like being out of my room with all the lights out—and Devon’s body lying down there.”

I let her out and watched her tentatively make her way back down the corridor.

The wick of my candle was starting to sputter, in danger of being suffocated by a pool of hot melted wax. I quickly undressed, blew out the flame and crawled into bed. The room was pitch-black. As I lay on my back, praying for the sheets to warm, I mulled over Jane’s revelation about Cap. If it turned out someone had actually killed Devon—though I had no clue how—that meant that both Cap and Whitney were suspects. Sexual jealousy was one of the biggest motivators of homicide. I felt particularly curious about why Jane had spilled the beans. Jane hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Devon, and it was hard to believe the “I feel I should tell someone” motive.

I could sense I wasn’t going to fall asleep easily. I scooted back up in bed, and for the next hour or so, I read by the beam of the flashlight. Finally, with my eyes growing weary, I switched off the flashlight and wriggled down under the covers.

Earlier it had seemed so deadly quiet in my room, but now I began to pick up little noises: the fire crackling in the stove; the wind rattling the window; the ice snapping on the trees outside. Eventually, I felt my body sag into the mattress, and sleep overtook me.

And then something was stirring me. I had no clue what it was, but my heart had begun to beat faster. I raised myself up in bed and cocked my head, straining to hear. The noise was coming from the hallway. Footsteps. Was it Jessie? I wondered.

Then there was another noise: the sound of something scratching on wood farther down the hall. I leaned forward in bed as my heart gathered speed. The scratching sound happened again. It was to the left of my room, near the door to Jessie’s room. What in the world was going on? I wondered. And then the scratching was happening right outside my room. Someone was running an object back and forth across my door. It sounded as if the thing was made of metal, like a coat hanger but thicker. With a gasp I realized it could be a knife.

“Who’s there?” I called out. I grabbed the flashlight, fumbled for the switch, and then bounded out of bed toward the small entranceway. Instinctively I leaned hard against the table, making sure the person couldn’t push open the door if he had a key. “Who’s there?” I called again.

There was another rapid scratching noise—a couple of strokes, like Zorro making the sign of the Z. Next I heard retreating footsteps and the sound of someone tripping down the stairs.

I ran back toward the phone to call extension seven but remembered the line was dead. I had absolutely no desire to bolt out into the hall, but I had to figure out what was going on—and to alert Scott. While I slid my feet hurriedly into a pair of ballet flats, I heard Jessie pound on the wall between our two rooms. After dragging the table away from the door, I peered outside. No one was there. I scurried down the hall and tapped on Jessie’s door, announcing it was me. In the beam from the flashlight I saw four or five large scratch marks carved in the wood of her door. I aimed the flashlight back toward my own door. There were ugly scratch marks there, too.

“What the hell is happening?” Jessie asked as she opened the door. She looked terrified.

“I don’t know. You’ve got Scott’s cell phone number?”

“Yeah—why?”

“See if you can wake him. At the same time, I’ll head over to his room.”

“Be careful, okay?” she pleaded.

Hurrying toward the stairs, I trained the beam of my flashlight raggedly over every corner of the landing, making sure no one was hiding in the darkness. On the ground floor I could see scratch marks on two guest room doors. Richard, Christian, Cap and Whitney, and Tommy and Tory were all on this floor, but I had no idea whose room was which. Was one of them the culprit? Had the person already snuck back into his room?

I pivoted and made my way to the entrance of the glass passageway. Once inside, I saw that I almost didn’t need my flashlight; the piles of snow outside partially illuminated the passage. Grabbing a breath, I picked up speed. Once I thought I heard someone behind me and spun around nervously. No one was there. The sound, I told myself, must have come from the glass being shaken by the wind.

I reached the other barn and pushed the door open. Just as I stepped inside, the freaking light of my flashlight died. I shook the torch a couple of times and the light came back on, but it seemed dimmer now.

I trained the stream of light toward Scott’s door and made my way in that direction. I knocked several times, and when that produced no results, I banged and called out his name. Nothing. Where
was
he? I wondered anxiously.

Then I heard a noise to my right. I turned and aimed the feeble beam of my light there. The main door of the barn, the one that went outside, was shuddering a little from the wind, and I could see that it hadn’t been shut tightly. It looked as if someone might have hurried outside and left it ajar.

Oh, fun, I thought. I’m gonna have to investigate out there. But, I realized, that might be exactly where Scott had gone—to check outside. I strode to the door, heart in mouth, and pulled it open.

Because of the snow I could see a little better outside than in, though that wasn’t saying much. The surrounding woods seemed so big and ominous, ready to engulf the barn. But there were no humans in sight.

“Scott!” I called out several times. He might, I realized, have hightailed it down to Ralph’s. There was no reply, just the sounds of trees crackling. I glanced down. There seemed to be fresh boot prints in the ice-crusted snow, but as far as I knew, they could have been made hours ago.

I stepped back inside and closed the door, wondering what I should do. The best course might be for me to head down to Ralph’s cabin. A big knot of fear had started to form in my tummy. To make matters worse, my flashlight suddenly sputtered—and then died for good.

“Fuck,” I said out loud.

I remembered that earlier Ralph had dumped extra flashlights on the island upstairs, and if I were in luck, one would still be there. Cautiously I made my way toward where I knew the stairs were and felt in the darkness for the wooden handrail. I found it after a few clumsy attempts and began the climb to the second level. Once upstairs, I took a moment to orient myself, trying to use my sense memory. I moved toward the area where I was sure the island was and finally bumped into it. I patted my hand over the entire surface, but there were no flashlights on top.

The smartest move at this point, I realized, was to return to Jessie’s room, borrow her flashlight, and head for the cabin from the door of the smaller barn. I took cautious baby steps toward the landing. Just as I’d placed my foot on the stairs, I heard a sound and froze. Somewhere behind me in the blackness of the great room, something had just moved. Oh, man, I thought, please don’t let this be happening.

“Who’s there?” I called out, weakly. My legs felt as limp as shoelaces.

Suddenly I heard a whoosh of air as someone rushed up behind me. I caught a whiff of rancid sweat at the same moment that I heard a swishing sound, like the movement of fabric. And then, while passing me, the person shoved against the right side of my body, pitching me forward. Instinctively my hand flew out in search of the rail, but it was too late. I was being propelled down the stairs, headfirst.

Chapter 8

W
ith each roll of my body, the same thought kept shooting through my brain: Please don’t let my neck snap in two. Though I tried to grab on to something, all I could reach was air or the edge of each stair step, and neither was any help. Suddenly my head thwacked hard against something—maybe the base of the banister—and my hand slammed into the ground floor. I stopped rolling. I lay on the ground, eyes closed. A million little lights pulsed in my brain.

I moaned. My head hurt and so did my butt and left wrist. And then there was a light nearly piercing my eyelids. I felt a rush of panic, thinking it must be the person who had knocked me down the stairs. But as I opened my eyes, squinting, I saw that it was Scott who was standing there, holding a flashlight.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Uhhh, I’m not sure,” I groaned.

“I don’t want to touch you—in case something’s broken. Can you just wiggle your fingers and toes and make sure you can move?”

“Yeah, just give me a second to catch my breath.”

Though I knew I was probably bruised in places, it didn’t feel as if anything was broken. One at a time, I lifted each arm and leg, making certain I could move them.

“I think I’m okay,” I said after a minute. “Could you just give me a hand?”

Taking my arm, Scott eased me into a sitting position and then helped me stand. For a second I felt a wave of dizziness, but then it subsided.

“What happened, for God’s sake?” Scott asked.

“Someone knocked me down the stairs. I’m not sure if they did it on purpose or were just trying to get around me. They were hiding in the dark up there.”

“
What
? What do you mean, hiding in the dark?”

I described what had happened up until he’d found me sprawled at his feet.

“I thought I heard a knock,” he said. “And my phone ringing. But it took me a minute or so to figure out if I was dreaming or not. Just as I reached the door, I heard someone tumbling down the stairs.”

“And you didn’t see anyone when you opened the door?”

“No, no one. My God, this is crazy.”

He directed his flashlight around the ground floor of the barn. Lying in a small heap near the door was one of the dark green rain ponchos from the pegs.

“I think the person was wearing that,” I said. “I felt something slick like it against my skin. Oh, and look there.”

I pointed to a rusty branding iron, one of the old farm tools I’d seen displayed on the walls. It was lying a few feet away from the poncho.

“That must be what the person used to scratch on the doors,” I said.

“What a fucking mess,” Scott said. “Who in God’s name would do something like that?”

“Good question.”

“What about you?” Scott said. “Should we try to get you to a hospital?”

Wow, wouldn’t it be sweet to see this place in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t feel in dire need of medical attention—and I couldn’t abandon Jessie.

“My wrist seems to be the only thing really hurting, but I think it’s just a bruise. Why don’t I just put ice on it for a while and see how it feels.”

He scooted upstairs to the fridge, returning in a minute with ice wrapped in a dishrag, two ibuprofen, and a glass of water. He’d also managed to locate another flashlight. I winced as I touched the pack gingerly to my wrist.

“Let’s get you back to your room,” Scott said. “Plus I want to check it out over there.”

He walked me back to the small barn, and we surveyed the damage to each door.

“I need to let the police know about this,” he whispered. “But it’s probably best to wait till morning. Otherwise we’ll freak everyone out. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll have Ralph sit on the ground floor of the barn and keep an eye out.”

I asked him to leave me at Jessie’s door, and as soon as she’d opened it, he took off. Jessie went bug-eyed at the sight of the ice pack. As I filled her in on what had happened, she began to tear up.

“What if something worse had happened to you?” she said, wiping at her eyes. “We’ve got to get out here.”

“The road should be clear tomorrow morning. We just have to tough it out for a few more hours. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

The second she closed her door, I heard her drag the table back against the door. I stood for a few seconds in the hall, examining the scratch marks on her door with the flashlight, trying to determine if there might be message a there—a word or a symbol. But there wasn’t. And none on my door either. They were just random scratch marks.

Back in my room I barricaded my own door and then, shivering, climbed into bed. As I lay there, taking a few long, deep breaths to try to relax, I heard male voices rising from the first floor. Scott had obviously brought Ralph, as promised.

Once the voices subsided, I replayed in my mind those few seconds at the top of the stairs. Come on, I urged myself. There had to be some kind of clue that would point to the night raider’s identity. But the only thing I had to go on was that awful stench of sweat. It suggested a man, and yet a woman could sweat heavily too if she was racing around playing a nasty trick and then was forced to hide, fearful of being caught.

Scott had asked who in God’s name would do something like that, and I honestly had no clue. It might be some kind of warning. One thing suddenly occurred to me. If Cap or Whitney or Tory or Tommy were the culprit, his or her partner had probably become aware of the sudden absence of the person sharing the bed.

Finally, at around four, I drifted off into a fractured sleep, fraught with vague, scary dreams.

When I opened my door the next morning at seven, bundled up in two sweaters, Scott was standing right there, his hand raised to knock.

“I’m getting everyone up,” he announced. “The police are due shortly, and the morgue van won’t be much later, since the road will be cleared within the next hour.”

The power was still out, which meant no hot water. So I skipped a shower and just splashed cold water on my face and torso. There was enough light from the bathroom window for me to study my bruises. I had black and blue marks on my ass and legs and a small bump on my forehead. My wrist was sore, but it was clear nothing was broken. I popped two ibuprofen, dressed quickly, and picked up Jessie before heading to the big barn.

There were already a few people waiting when we arrived, including Sandy, who had set out bagels and muffins on the counter. The two stoves were working their butts off, but there was a chill to the room. As each new person came up the stairs, they demanded to know what was going on. All Scott would say was, “Grab a mug of tea. There’s been a new development, but let’s wait until everyone arrives.” Once we were all seated, he broke the news—the vandalism of the doors, me being pushed down the stairs, and the fact that the cops would be back this morning. Every person sitting there glanced quickly around at the others, looking shocked. Clearly one person was faking it.

“I saw the marks when we were leaving the room just now,” Cap said. “Are you saying one of the
guests
made them?”

“Yes,” Scott said soberly. “I hardly think Sandy or Ralph came over here during the night and played a prank on us all.”

“Now that you mention it, I thought I heard someone at my door last night,” Tommy said, “but to be perfectly honest, I thought it was Bailey dropping by for a late-night interview. I was just too spent to answer.”

Oh, yeah, just me and a can of Reddiwip.

“Well, I don’t care if I have to hike out by foot and pick Devon’s car up next spring, I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Jane declared.

“Aren’t there rescue workers who can help us?” Tory wailed. “We’re trapped—like people in that Hurricane Katrina.”

Tommy started to say something, and Scott raised his hand to quiet everyone. He explained that the road would be plowed by the time we were done speaking to the cops again, and then everyone would be free to leave.

“Shouldn’t we be asking how poor
Bailey
is?” Richard said, though his tone didn’t suggest much sympathy.

“Much better, thank you,” I said.

The police arrived twenty minutes later, and my conversation with Detective Collinson went far less smoothly than the earlier ones. As I described my tumble down the stairs, an irritated look formed on his ghost-white face, as if I’d just announced I’d accidentally rear-ended one of the town’s police cruisers.

“You’ve
no
idea who it might have been?” he asked impatiently.

“None,” I told him. “Except of course that it had to be one of the houseguests. I doubt a stranger broke in and decided to go on a branding rampage.”

He sighed. “And you thought it was a good idea to just follow this person in the dead of night?”

“I wasn’t really in pursuit. In fact, I thought the person had probably gone back to his or her room. I was going to wake Scott, and when he didn’t answer, I went upstairs to find another flashlight.”

“Where do you think he was?”

“Probably crouched behind one of the couches in the great room.”

“No, I mean Mr. Cohen.”

Interesting question.

“He said he was in his bedroom but didn’t wake up right away.”

Collinson told me to call him if I learned anything new, and in turn I promised to be in contact with him as I followed the story. He seemed positively thrilled.

When I returned to the great room, people were buzzing about the fact that the road was finally navigable. As soon as Jessie’s interview with Collinson was over, we walked back to our rooms, packed up quickly, and prepared to leave.

“Can you take our bags out to the car?” I asked her. “There’s one last thing I need to do.”

Following Devon’s death, I’d managed to talk to everyone but Sandy and Ralph. Now, with people in exit mode, it might be a chance to catch at least one of them alone.

I found Sandy wiping down the top of the island. Dressed in a camel turtleneck sweater and puffy sleeveless brown vest, she looked ragged, as if she’d gotten little sleep herself. Her short blondish gray hair was pressed flat against her scalp. Like me, she’d obviously decided to skip the cold shower.

“I just wanted to say thank you for everything you did this weekend,” I told her.

“You’re welcome,” she replied crisply. “That’s nice of you to say.”

“This must have been a pretty harrowing couple of days for you.”

“You could say that. But we get through—we always do.”

She made it sound as if it wasn’t all that unusual for one of the houseguests to leave the premises in a morgue van.

“You heard about last night, of course. Any ideas about who scratched the doors?”

“Why would I? I was fast asleep in my cabin.”

“Well, you’ve probably got a sense of the houseguests by now. Does one of them seem crazy enough to do something like that?”

She finally stopped wiping and stared at me, her unblinking blue eyes telegraphing the fact that she thought we were
all
freaking crazy.

“Afraid not,” she said.

“You didn’t seem to like Devon very much,” I said.

“I don’t make it my business to like or not like the people who come here.”

“She didn’t eat anything you made. I had the feeling that annoyed you.”

“Wouldn’t it annoy
you
? Going to all the effort and having someone just stare at it in disgust—as if you’ve served them a slab of lard.”

“I’m pretty sure she had an eating disorder. Her behavior may have seemed rude, but it wasn’t anything personal. Devon wouldn’t have eaten anything from anyone.”

“If you ask me, she was just used to doing as she darn well pleased and having everyone at her beck and call. What do you call those women in New York? Divas?”

“Did she give you a hard time?”

“In every way you can think of. She didn’t like her sheets, and we had to change those twice. We originally put Jane in one of the smaller bedrooms downstairs, but she wanted Jane next to her, come hell or high water, and so Mr. Parkin got stuck with the smaller room and Jane was moved upstairs. Even her water. She had told Scott to stock plenty of this Fiji water—can you imagine having to drink water all the way from there?—and then she complained about the taste. Ralph had to drive into town and buy another kind—Evian—and she complained about that too. I suggested she try our well water, which suits us just fine, and you would have thought I’d told her to run buck naked through the woods. Though she probably would have
liked
that.”

Her face had turned red as she was speaking, not just a flush to her cheeks but a splotchy, angry red that exacerbated her dry, weathered skin. She pinched her lips, aware that she’d said more than she should have.

“I really do need to finish up here,” she said. “Do you need help packing your car?”

I told her I didn’t and made my way back downstairs. I pushed open the front door to see if Jessie was out by the car, and I found her saying an awkward good-bye to Scott. I tried to make my own good-bye as cordial as possible, since I knew I might need to be in touch with Scott. As I climbed into my Jeep, I noticed that several cars were already gone. People had wasted no time beating a retreat.

The drive toward the main highway was dicey, since there were still patches of ice on the road. My phone was totally out of battery, but Jessie still had a little power in hers. She called Nash to let him know we would be in the office in about two hours.

Next I tried Beau. He picked up his cell phone on the first ring.

“I’ve been really worried about you,” he said and sounded it. “I keep trying your phone, and it won’t even let me leave a message.”

“We lost power in a storm, and I wasn’t able to charge my phone. But thank God, we’re on our way back now.”

“What’s the latest?”

“Things became a lot more complicated. But why don’t I fill you in later—there’s a lot of ice on the road, and I need to focus.”

“I assume you’ll have to work late tonight.”

“Yup. But I’ll keep you posted.”

“Drive carefully, Bailey. I love you.”

“Same here.”

“Things back to normal?” Jessie asked after I signed off.