“Dead? Omigod.”
“You’ve got to wake Scott, Laura. Just please hurry up, okay?”
I could have gone myself to fetch Scott, but I didn’t want to leave Laura in charge of the scene—and to be honest, I wanted a chance to look around.
After Laura stumbled off, I glanced back down at Devon’s body. Within hours the luminescent skin would turn waxy, her limbs would stiffen, and the face that had made a fortune would begin to sag. She had seemed like a bitch on wheels, totally self-absorbed, but I couldn’t help but feel rocked and saddened by her death. She was so young, so beautiful—and, as it turned out, so talented, too.
How had she died, I wondered? The first word that flashed in my mind for some reason was overdose—maybe because she’d had a rocker boyfriend. I glanced toward the bedside table to the right of the bed. Besides the phone, there was an empty water bottle, an iPod, an iPhone, a tin of lip balm, a crushed pack of cigarettes, and a saucer piled with butts.
But just because there was no sign of drugs didn’t mean she hadn’t taken something or even shot it up, and she’d been wobbly when she’d left dinner. But suddenly a memory rushed my mind: Devon in the woods this morning, crying and saying she wasn’t safe. I ran my eyes over her body. There were no visible bruises on her neck or torso—and no blood on the sheets.
What I did see as I stared at her naked torso was how thin she really was. Beneath her breasts, the outline of almost every rib was apparent. Several models had suffered heart attacks in recent years as a result of anorexia. Was that how Devon Barr had died? I wondered. Certainly being intoxicated tonight would have only complicated matters.
Until an autopsy was conducted, the police would treat her death as suspicious. Both a police crime scene unit and the local coroner would be brought in to check out the room. I had no right to snoop around, and I certainly wasn’t going to do anything to muck up the scene, but there was no harm in letting my eyes continue to wander.
The bedroom was similar to mine—spacious, with a small separate sitting area at the far end—though decorated differently, in blues and greens. There were wads of clothes scattered on not only the chair and loveseat but also the floor.
As my eyes scanned the room, they finally reached the darkened doorway to the bathroom. I took a few careful steps in that direction. When I reached the door, I tugged the sleeve of my pajamas down over my hand and, after a couple of moments of fumbling, flipped on the light switch. If Devon had been doing drugs, there might be evidence in here.
The bathroom was a mess. There were black suede boots lying limply on the floor along with the cream-colored blouse she’d worn at dinner and two damp bath towels. Cosmetics littered the counter surrounding the sink, as if she’d simply upended her makeup bag. Mixed among them were used Q-tips and cotton balls, a tube of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream Skin Protectant, and different lotions and creams—plus another empty water bottle. Without moving my feet, I leaned forward and squinted at the bottles and tubes. No sign of drugs. But something else of interest. Standing among them was a small brown bottle of syrup of ipecac. I hadn’t seen that stuff in years.
Syrup of ipecac, I knew, induced vomiting, something I learned when I was reporting an accidental poisoning story for the Albany Times Union. Parents were once encouraged to store it in their medicine cabinet in case their kid decided to chow down on some toxic household cleanser or a bottle of aspirin, but that strategy was no longer recommended by doctors. The problem was that vomiting could sometimes make a poisoning situation even worse. For instance, when you throw up lye, it just scorches your throat all over again.
But why would Devon be toting it around? I wondered. Searching my mind, I seemed to remember reading once that bulimics used ipecac to support their efforts. So perhaps Devon had suffered from bulimia, not anorexia.
Suddenly I picked up the sounds of people barreling down the corridor. I quickly flicked the bathroom light off and stepped back into the bedroom. Two seconds later Scott bolted through the door with Laura in tow.
“She’s dead?” he blurted out. “What happened?” His jeans, which he had clearly thrown on in a hurry, were still unzipped and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his naked chest, covered lightly with greying hair.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “She called Laura just after one o’clock for some water. Laura fell back asleep and finally brought it up a few minutes ago. It looks as if Devon has been dead for at least an hour.”
“Christ, this is a total nightmare,” he said, sweeping his hand through his hair. “What are we supposed to do?”
“You need to call nine-one-one. Do you know what shape the road is in—I mean, has Ralph started plowing it yet?”
“He’s come down with a bad cold and he said he barely made a dent in it.”
“Well, the cops will have a four-wheel drive, so hopefully they won’t have much trouble. But an ambulance or morgue van might not be able to get through. When you speak to the nine-one-one operator, you better tell her about the road conditions here. And you might want to mention that this is a high-profile person.”
He took a few steps closer, and I realized he was about to pick up the phone on the bedside table.
“Scott, I wouldn’t use that phone,” I said. “There’s a chance foul play was involved. We shouldn’t get our fingerprints on anything in the room.”
“Foul play? You think someone killed her?”
“It doesn’t look that way, but that’s up to the police to rule out.”
He sighed, shaking his head in discouragement.
“All right, I’ll go grab my cell phone. Laura, you need to run down to the cabin and wake Sandy—and Ralph, if he’s up to it.”
She moaned, as if he’d just asked her to hike into town.
“Laura, go!” he barked, and she turned on her heels. He no longer seemed like the charming I-won’t-even-mind-if-you-tell-another-guest-to-stick-it-in-his-piehole host from earlier in the evening. I guess finding a dead houseguest will do that to you.
“Where’s Jane’s room, by the way?” I asked as he hesitated in the doorway, looking discombobulated.
“She’s next door on the right.”
“Why don’t I wake her while you’re calling 911? She may have a number for Devon’s parents. Once you’re off the phone, I’d suggest you wake Cap.”
“You’re not planning to phone this in to the night desk at Buzz as soon as I leave, are you?” he asked, studying me intently. I couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was being sarcastic or dead serious.
“The number-one priority right now is to get the police here,” I told him. “But this is going to be a major story, and I will have to cover it—just like a zillion other reporters. You and Cap should work out a statement.”
“I’m telling you right now, then. Everything I say from this point on is off the record.”
“Understood,” I said. “I promise to play fair with you on all of this.”
I didn’t like his testiness, but I could hardly blame him. After he left I surveyed the room one more time, closed Devon’s door, and then hurried to Jane’s room. It took about ten knocks to finally rouse her. When she swung open the door, it was like I’d woken a bear from hibernation. Her dark hair was a mass of frizz, and her mouth was twisted in a snarl.
“What now?” she demanded in a voice hoarse from sleep.
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Jane. Devon is dead.”
Her eyes widened, and I expected some bold exclamation to follow, but her face quickly relaxed and all she said was, “How?”