So Pretty It Hurts bwm-6

by Kate White

  “The bottom was punctured, which must have caused all the medication inside to seep out. But I’m not sure how that could have happened. Some sharp object in her purse maybe—like a pen?”

  “You don’t think Cap did it, do you? That he got wind of what she was up to and decided to secretly off her?”

  “No, that’s not Cap’s style. If he knew that Whitney had killed his star client, he would have just throttled her.”

  A few minutes later I nearly crawled back to my apartment. I threw myself onto the couch and pulled an old throw blanket up to my chin. As I was dozing off, Jessie called. I suspected by the silence behind her that she was probably safely sequestered in a conference room at Buzz.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t call me,” she said. “You’ve got to tell me everything.”

  “Oh God, sorry—I planned to call you. I’ve just got a bitch of a cold right now.” I took her quickly through an abbreviated version of what had happened.

  “Gosh, how weird and sad and everything else. I feel sorry for Cap, actually. He seemed like an okay guy.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think he had any idea how unbalanced Whitney really was. She clearly loved the life she had with Cap. She’d said that they’d had a whirlwind courtship, and my guess is that she saw right away what the possibilities could be—a big fancy apartment, furs and jewelry, a ranch in Texas someday. And as long as everything was on an even keel, she probably seemed fairly normal. But then, to help preserve that lifestyle, she ended up giving Devon her eggs. And when she learned what Devon had done, she just snapped.”

  “If she hadn’t gone off the deep end today, do you think she would have been arrested?”

  “I honestly don’t know. The fertility doctor Devon used might have confirmed that Whitney was the donor, and there would also be the confirmation of Whitney’s call to the gyno. But unless they could have traced the Lasix to her, it would have been hard to prove she doctored the water.”

  I told her then that Nash had left me a few messages.

  “I assume he’s calling about Whitney’s death,” I said. “I’m sure it’s eating him alive that I’m at the center of this whole thing but no longer on his payroll.”

  “You better believe it. Plus, one of the lawyers was down in his office earlier. I have a feeling they now realize that Whitney must have put Sherrie up to this.”

  “Whitney never came right out and said it, but it’s clearly the case.”

  “So you’re going to call Nash, right?”

  “Sure. I want my name cleared.”

  “But what about the magazine? Are you going to write the story for Buzz?”

  I hesitated. The answer was forming in my mind right then and there, and it caught me a little by surprise. I should have seen it coming, but I’d been so preoccupied, I hadn’t.

  “You know, I don’t think so,” I said. “I can’t ever go back there after what Nash did to me.”

  “Oh, wow,” Jessie said. “Though I can’t blame you. Just promise me you won’t make any rash decisions. Talk to Nash, see what he has to say. I don’t think I can face this place every day without you.”

  “Thanks, Jess. Lets talk more tomorrow.”

  I had just laid my head back down on the pillow when Beau called. It felt so good to hear his voice. I gave him the same short version I’d offered Jessie because now my throat hurt so much I could barely talk. He said he wanted to come by, but I explained I was conked out, almost in a coma.

  “I don’t care, I want to see you,” Beau said. “You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. Why don’t I come over and let myself in, so that way I won’t wake you. Later I can fix you something to eat.”

  It was a tough offer to refuse. After I hung up, I forced myself off the couch. Better to be in bed, I thought. As I staggered to my bedroom, I kept thinking about how much Beau had been there for me over the past few days. Not so elusive after all.

  I fell into a deep sleep, waking only briefly when I thought I heard Beau come in the front door of the apartment. What seemed like hours later, I stirred again to find Beau sitting on the edge of my bed, dressed in jeans and a black pullover sweater.

  “Don’t get too close,” I muttered. “This is brutal.”

  “How about something to eat? I could make you an omelet.”

  “Yeah, I am kind of hungry.”

  He returned a few minutes later with tea, toast, and a cheese omelet. I couldn’t eat much of the omelet in the end, but the toast and tea definitely helped me to rally. I scooted up even higher in bed and mustered a smile at Beau. He was now sitting in the armchair at the foot of my bed.

  “Thanks for the food,” I told him. “I feel vaguely human now.”

  “The sleep probably helped, too. I checked a few online sites for you. This story has exploded. Lots and lots of speculation, of course, because most people don’t have any clue what really happened. I bet a ton of outlets are trying to reach you to interview you.”

  “I should probably deal with that in a minute. There’s just so much to think about right now.”

  “Do you still have unanswered questions about the case?” he asked.

  “A few. I don’t know who the guy in the gypsy cab was or how Whitney put him up to the job. But maybe the police can figure that out by going through her phone logs. One thing that does keep bugging me is the hole in the inhaler. Landon asked if Cap could have done it.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “No, but it seems unlikely it could have happened accidentally. You would think those things were almost fail proof. If it wasn’t an accident, then someone put the hole there.”

  “I think I’ll hang around for a while, just to keep an eye on my patient. Do you need anything else right now?”

  “Um, just my phone. It’s in my bag, out in the living room.”

  “Sure,” Beau said and started to rise from the chair.

  “Wait, one second, though, would you?” I said. “There’s something I want to say off the topic of murder and mayhem.”

  Beau came from around the bottom of the bed and sidled up next to me.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I know it seems crazy, but in the midst of all this nightmare stuff, I’ve had a chance to do some thinking. Remember what you said to me the other day about me being the one with the commitment issues? Well, you’re not the first person to say that to me. You’re not even the second. I’d like to have another chance with you. And now that I’m aware of what’s going on with me, I think I can handle things differently.”

  “Great, Bailey. I’m happy to hear that.” He laughed. “Besides, a friend of mine just invited us to his amazing ski house over Christmas, and I need to give him an answer by tonight.”

  God, this was getting better by the minute.

  “That sounds like a lot of fun,” I said.

  Beau took three steps toward me and leaned down to kiss me.

  “No,” I said, throwing up my hand. “You’ll catch this thing. It’s mean as a pit bull.”

  “I’m sure I’m probably already infected,” he said, laughing. “We did a lot of spit swapping this weekend.”

  He returned a few minutes later with my purse and set it down on the bed next to me. I reached toward it to retrieve my phone. I was anxious to see who might have called me for interviews. Maybe even a news outlet that I could form a partnership with, since I wouldn’t be going back to Buzz. Gosh, I’d almost said it out loud: I wasn’t going back. I’d never again have a first look at Suri’s latest pair of kitten heels.

  And then, just as I touched my purse, a thought jarred me, like a fellow subway passenger falling into me as the train rounded a curve. Whitney’s handbag. The brown suede hobo bag. I’d seen it before. On Saturday afternoon I had followed Devon down the stairs at Scott’s to talk to her, and I’d caught her putting something into her handbag. A brown suede hobo bag. But it hadn’t been her bag, after all. It had been Whitney’s. It had happened, too, only a short time
after Devon’s discussion with Cap in the woods and her confession to me that she wasn’t safe.

  And at that moment, as the wind howled outside, I realized the final twist of the story: Devon had punctured the inhaler after she realized, from her conversation with Cap, that Whitney had probably learned about the abortion. She’d been terrified of Whitney’s wrath and what she might do.

  Whitney had killed Devon. But in the end, Devon had killed her back.

  Chapter 23

  Beau asked if I wanted him to build a fire, and I told him yes. It had been a fairly mild January so far, but on that Friday, in the third week of the month, the night was suddenly crazy cold, and I craved extra warmth. There was a brief moment when I worried that seeing flames in his fireplace, the fireplace I’d never really noticed all fall, would trigger that old Why-is-Beau-such-a-freaking-mystery? feeling in me again, but as I watched him light the kindling and poke around with one of the irons, I could tell it wasn’t going to happen.

  First, he looked really good in the jeans he was wearing, and that was an excellent distraction. Plus, ever since I’d urged myself to (1) accept the fact that he was fully committed to me, and (2) stop going slightly psycho or pulling back, I’d been a pretty good girl. And even when I occasionally did feel a little weirded out, I would just recite a helpful mantra in my head, like “Bailey, don’t be a total love moron,” and “Bailey, just shut your freakin’ brain down, okay?”

  But something unexpected happened when flames finally started to dance and the smell of wood smoke filled the room. I was suddenly back in that barn fire in Pennsylvania, terrified that I would never find a way out and the smoke and the flames or both would be my undoing. Beau was in the kitchen at that point, carving up a rotisserie chicken he’d bought, and he didn’t see the tears of phantom panic prick my eyes. Six weeks had passed since the barn incident, but I realized that it was still playing a bit of havoc with my psyche.

  Of course it wasn’t just the barn fire that still troubled me. It was everything else rolled up with that—being abducted in the gypsy cab and Whitney’s death and discovering the awful things she and Devon had done to each other.

  At least I hadn’t landed in an iffy situation with the cops, which easily could have happened. Though a lot about the case was finally clear in my mind, I knew it must seem muddled and even far-fetched to the cops, especially without any solid evidence pointing to Whitney. Plus, I’d done enough crime pieces to know that the cops found me suspicious just from having been smack in the middle of it all. The day after Whitney’s death, at the urging of Beau, Landon, and my mother, I hired a lawyer. I knew it would cost me big-time, but I needed the best advice possible.

  Fortunately, a few things emerged fairly quickly that lent my story and theory credibility. The Upper West Side resident who had called 911 apparently confirmed that Whitney had been trying to push me off the terrace. She’d seen it with binoculars. (I said a silent prayer at the time to the patron saint of busybodies and voyeurs.) Also, Tommy admitted to me that he’d indeed talked to Whitney about the funeral from the Living Room, and told her I was dropping by. He shared this info with the police without even asking for any kinky favors in return.

  And my attorney was able to suss out from a police contact that Whitney’s father had a prescription to Lasix for high blood pressure and that she’d made an impromptu visit to see him right before she’d headed off for the spa trip with Devon. Though the cops never revealed this, I suspected that they were able to confirm that Whitney had made contact with someone in Devon’s gyno’s office during the fall. The cops stayed in touch with me for a while, asking for input, but that was it.

  A week after Whitney’s death, Detective Collinson called and thanked me for what I’d done. He revealed that with more specific questioning, Ralph, Scott’s caretaker, recalled seeing Whitney take a bottle of Evian water out of her purse on Saturday and set it on the counter, though neither he, Sandy, nor Laura had ever seen her drinking bottled water that weekend. Collinson also shared a couple of details he’d picked up from the cops in New York. Whitney and Cap had taken separate cars to the funeral. Though the texts I’d received had been sent on a prepaid phone and there was no clue who had purchased it, the police found gasoline stains in the trunk of Whitney’s car. He also told me that Cap didn’t try to come to Whitney’s defense in any way. I suspected Cap recognized the truth and was totally distressed and disgusted by it.

  There was one other loose end I cleared up on my own—by calling Richard Parkin.

  “Well, well,” he said when he heard my voice. “Once again you’ve managed to dazzle us all with your Sherlockian skills. Bravo, Bailey.”

  Due to his tone, it didn’t sound like much of a compliment, but I thanked him anyway.

  “And are all these lurid details about a pregnancy and abortion true?” he asked.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll share if you share.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Why did you visit Devon’s mother the day of the funeral?”

  “Oh, my. Was our fearless Bailey actually doing a stakeout in Pine Grove?”

  “I don’t have the time or energy to play cute with you, Richard. Just tell me.”

  “All right,” he said, his voice suddenly stripped of either false jocularity or sarcasm. “I did go to see that pitiful wench. But it was out of nothing more than morbid curiosity. I wanted to see the place Devon was born. I wanted to see the house that could produce such a monster. I thought I might find some closure that way.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. I just considered his grief and pain and wondered how much it had shaped his life.

  “And did you?” I asked finally.

  “No,” he said. “I’m afraid not at all.”

  I signed off, feeling intensely sorry for the man.

  There were other loose ends that, unfortunately I wasn’t able to tie up. The odorous Zorro, for instance. I was still pretty sure Jane had wielded the branding iron that night at Scott’s, but there just was no way to prove it. Then there was the gypsy cab driver. From what I’d learned, the police were searching Whitney’s phone records to see if they could find a link, but as of this point, nothing seemed to have turned up. Not that the cops were going to call me with any news.

  And lastly there was Sherrie. Jessie had heard she’d definitely gone on a major bender after Devon’s death—maybe because most of Devon’s money had been left to the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute—and so the Buzz lawyers had no luck getting her to retract what she said about me. It didn’t matter anymore, though. Nash told me that he and the lawyers were now certain that Whitney must have put Sherrie up to the whole thing.

  Yeah, I finally talked to Nash. He kept calling, and I realized I was being childish not to return his calls. I was expecting the gruff-news-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold routine, with him doing a big mea culpa and begging me to come back, and I knew I’d have to fight hard not to be suckered in by it. Instead he offered this line of bullshit about how the lawyers had totally muzzled him during my suspension, but he’d been working doggedly the whole time to clear my name. Sure, right, I told myself—and Lindsay Lohan was about to be named the next UN Goodwill Ambassador. I knew I’d never ever be able to trust the guy. Which made it easier to tell him I was moving on.

  “If you’re holding out for more money,” Nash replied, “I can probably do a little something.”

  “No,” I told him, “it’s not a money thing. But thank you. Best of luck.”

  I was surprised at how sad the decision to leave Buzz made me feel. I had arrived there knowing practically nada about celebs and caring even less—I mean, I would look at shots of people like Audrina Partridge and wonder how a woman whose only real accomplishment in life was sticking to a low-carb diet could be on the cover of Buzz—but it had been fun to be in that crazy, zany world for a while.

  Despite all the turmoil of those December days, there was one definite upside. Once my
lawyer felt the cops really accepted my version of events, I did a ton of press and my book took off, leaving Napkin Folding for Beginners in a cloud of dust. It even briefly made the New York Times best-seller list—okay, extended list, but still, it meant I was going to receive royalties. And several publishers approached my agent, inquiring about my doing another book, this one on the whole Devon mess. I’d pounded out a proposal during my ski trip with Beau over the holidays.

  And there was news to share on the book front when I sat down to the roast chicken dinner at Beau’s.

  “So how did the meeting with your agent go?” Beau asked before I could even broach the subject.

  “Great,” I said. “She’s tested the waters with my proposal, and she thinks we can actually sell the book in an auction, which means I might make some decent dough up front.”

  “That’s fantastic, Bailey,” he said.

  “Yeah, I’m so relieved. I’ve got that small trust fund from my father, but it’s just barely enough to live on. With the book advance, I should be fine this year. So I’m going to try the freelance route for a while. I’ll work on the book and whatever assignments come up here and there.”

  “Will it be weird not to have an office to go into?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure a little bit. Both Buzz and Gloss were only part-time, but it was still nice to hang around other people some days. And it’s kind of scary to be totally on my own. But in the long run, I think it may be better for me. Bosses always seem to make me bristle. Now I don’t have to be at the mercy of a Cat Jones or Nash Nolan or Mona Hodges. I like the idea of being a free agent.”

  “Should that alarm me?” he asked, locking his brown eyes with mine.

  “I mean professionally,” I said, smiling.

  And I realized something at that moment. That part of why I felt comfortable becoming a free agent professionally and taking such a big risk was that I had Beau in my life. Not to bail me out financially. But because I was crazy about him and because I knew he had my back in so many ways. That at the end of a solitary day, we could share a good conversation, and later I’d be able to slip into bed beside him. No sooner had the thought formed, though, thant my heart fluttered a little with anxiety. Was I putting too much stock in a romantic relationship?