The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted us as we entered the living area. Sandy was bustling nervously at the kitchen counter while Scott, Jane, and Cap huddled at the island. Laura Ash was sitting alone at the dining table, appearing glum as all get-out. And a solemn-looking Whitney was on one of the couches, working a pair of knitting needles and a fat ball of yarn.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, approaching the group by the island as Jessie slunk off toward a couch. Cap’s face was pinched in despair. If he had been having an affair with Devon, this experience was a helluva lot worse than simply losing a longtime client.
“We’re trying to put a statement together,” Cap said. “We’d like a few minutes alone, if you don’t mind.”
Trying not to look thrown by the snub, I quickly poured a cup of coffee and joined Whitney and Jessie on the couch.
“This must be awful for Cap,” I said softly to Whitney.
“For both of us,” she said above the steady clicking of her silver needles. “Devon’s been Cap’s client for seven years. I just pray to God she didn’t suffer.”
“Did she have any health problems that you were aware of?”
“Health problems?” Whitney sniffed. “She was only thirty-four. What health problems could she possibly have had?”
“Anorexia. Or bulimia. Some kind of eating disorder.”
“Devon had struggled with weight issues in the past, but she managed to put that behind her. Though I’m sure that will all be dragged out again in your magazine and places like that. This may sound horribly old-fashioned, but where I come from, we still believe that if you can’t say anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”
I wondered if she also believed in unicorns.
“As I told Scott, we’re off the record here,” I said. “This is a tough situation, and Jessie and I want to help in any way.”
“There’s just so much to do right now,” Whitney said. “A statement to the press, funeral arrangements, a memorial service in New York possibly—and here we are, snowbound.”
“Was Jane able to reach Devon’s mother?” I asked.
“Yes, but she apparently wasn’t sober, and Jane’s not sure how much she actually digested. If I had my phone with me, I’d call her myself. I just dread going back to the room alone.”
“Here, use my BlackBerry,” I said, handing it to her in the hope she’d see that I wasn’t the enemy.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting it. She stared at it for a moment, then shook her head and handed it back.
“What am I thinking?” she said. “The number’s on my phone. And it’s probably best for Cap to make the call anyway.”
Scott drifted over a moment later and announced that he had made an executive decision to wake the others and fill them in. Within the next fifteen minutes, Richard, Tommy, and Tory joined us in the great room. Everyone appeared stunned, but there weren’t any tears. From the corner of my eye I watched Richard pour coffee and sink back with his cup into one of the leather armchairs. I was dying to know what was racing through his mind beneath the wild tufts of bed-head hair. He was a reporter too. Surely he was wondering who he should give the story to.
For the next hour and a half we waited, with people sometimes drifting in and out of the room. Finally, at around 5:00 a.m., we heard the sound of a gunned motor, a vehicle forcing its way through the snow on the driveway. Scott rose to go downstairs, and I followed him. He turned once in surprise but didn’t question my presence.
Before anyone could knock, Scott flung open the double doors. Two plainclothes cops were standing in the cold, their coats dusted with snowflakes. They stepped inside and introduced themselves. Detective Ray was a short, beer-gutted guy of about fifty, with a silver skunk streak in his hair. Detective Collinson was tall, slim, and in his midthirties, I guessed. He was what my mother called black Irish—dark hair, charcoal black eyes, and very white skin, in his case almost Draculean. There was a swollen quality to his face, as if he were on steroids for some kind of health ailment. It was clear after a moment that Collinson, the younger one, was the man in charge.
Scott explained very quickly what had happened. He presented himself as open, eager to cooperate, but at the same time firmly in charge and not at all obsequious. I would have been impressed except I kept remembering that hours earlier he’d suggested to Jessie that he wanted to add me to his personal spank bank. When he finished talking, I briefly offered my portion of the story, describing how I’d been woken by Laura and had gone into Devon’s room to investigate.
Natch, the cops wanted to see the body right away. We accompanied them to the small barn, and when we reached Devon’s room, Scott unlocked the door. While the cops entered the room, Scott and I stood silently in the hall cooling our heels, not making eye contact. The police emerged about ten minutes later.
“Where is this Laura Ash now?” Collinson asked.
Scott informed them that she was back with the others, and Collinson said he would like to speak to her in private, and then to Scott and me in that order. The other guests could be interviewed randomly once the police were finished with us. Scott suggested using his study on the ground floor of the bigger barn. Devon’s bedroom was relocked before we left.
Laura was questioned for about ten minutes, and when she came back upstairs, she appeared totally stricken, as if she’d just turned over critical info about a mob boss. I wondered if there was something Laura hadn’t told me or whether she was being eaten up by guilt for not having delivered the water when Devon initially called her. Scott’s interview lasted about twenty minutes, and then it was my turn.
“You’ve been up since before three,” Collinson said to me, gesturing toward a chair. “You must be awfully tired by this point. I appreciate your cooperation.”
I had dealt with more than a few local police over the years, and most seemed to overcompensate for their small jurisdictions by acting fairly gruff or bossy. This dude was different. His soft-spoken approach was a real departure. But I told myself to be careful. For all I knew, his easy style was simply a way to lower someone’s guard.
“I’m on my fifth cup of coffee, so I’m awake enough,” I said. “Before we start, it’s only fair for me to point out that I’m a journalist. I cover celebrity crime for Buzz magazine—and this will definitely be something I’m expected to report on. But I haven’t done anything yet. I want to first help in the investigation.”
Collinson eyed me silently for a moment. Ray blinked and squeezed his eyes shut for a beat or two. It was a weird little tic he had.
“Thank you for your candor,” Collinson said finally. “Now why don’t you take us through what happened again, but this time step by step.”
I did as he said, leaving nothing out—except of course Scott’s request to take Jessie and me to pleasure heaven at the same time. Just in case Laura hadn’t been a hundred percent forthcoming, I mentioned the time gap in Laura’s response to the phone call from Devon as well as the mystery call—though from Collinson’s blank expression, I had no way of telling whether this was new info or not. I also recounted my brief conversation at the edge of the woods with Devon Saturday morning. This, of course, was new, and he sat up straighter.
“That was all she said?” he asked. “Nothing specific?”
“No, nothing specific—and she seemed fine a short time later. But she definitely looked rattled in the woods.”
“Was anyone using drugs here tonight?”
Aha. He might look mild-mannered, but he wasn’t going to pull any punches with his questions.