I returned to the great room, which turned out to be empty now. The group had obviously splintered after the police interviews, with people returning to their rooms. Unless I went knocking on doors, I wasn’t going to be able to talk to anyone.
When I reentered the small barn, I found Scott and Sandy standing just outside the door of a small walk-in storage area in the foyer. The door of the closet was made of barn wood, and it was flush to the wall, so I hadn’t even known it was there before. The expressions on their faces suggested that something wasn’t right.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“There’s a set of keys missing,” Scott announced. “The backup set to all the guest bedrooms.”
“You’re sure?” I asked Sandy.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I saw them there last night when I was getting supplies. And there was no reason for me to touch them. I’ve got my own set.”
“I’d assumed whoever went back into Devon’s room used the set on the counter,” Scott said. “But this is obviously how it was done.”
I’d noticed the night before that there were no bolts on the inside of the bedroom doors, just buttons on the knobs. It also meant that whoever had the keys could gain access to our rooms when we were sleeping and the doors were locked.
Chapter 6
“You need to tell the police about this,” I told Scott. “Something’s not kosher here.”
He sighed. “All right, I’ll tell Collinson when we meet again.” He headed off, with Sandy in tow. When I reached the top of the stairs a minute later, I saw that Devon’s door was partially open and I could hear people moving around in there.
Back in my bedroom I checked out the Buzz Web site. My story was up. I also saw that the statement Scott and Cap had been working on had been released and incorporated.
I filed a brief update for Buzz, saying that Devon’s body was being examined and police were going over her room—other than that, there wasn’t much to say. I’d no sooner hit Send than one of the deputy editors called me on my cell to discuss coverage. She sounded more ornery than usual, probably from having been called into the office on Sunday.
“Why haven’t you included quotes from any of the houseguests?” she demanded.
“I’m keeping it all off the record up here,” I told her.
“What?” she barked.
“No one would give me a direct quote anyway,” I said patiently. “And if I don’t keep things off the record, people will stonewall me. This way I’m getting lots of info for background.”
“But you—”
“I have to go,” I said, cutting her off. For a woman whose greatest professional success up until now had been being called a whore by Snooki, she had a lot of nerve complaining about how I put a story together.
I checked my watch. I was dying to talk to Beau, and now would be a decent time to call him. I tried his cell, but there was no answer. I realized that he might be headed to the airport or already on the plane.
I kicked off my boots, collapsed into the armchair by the window, and propped my feet up on the ottoman. I needed a few moments to clear my head and just think. Devon’s death, regardless of the cause, was unsettling, but that wasn’t all that was bothering me. Like I’d told Jessie, there was something weird going on. Whoever had taken the keys and then pinched the ipecac from Devon’s bathroom had decided that the truth shouldn’t come out. Why?
And then there was the mystery call to extension seven. That continued to bug me.
After a while of trying to chill, I tugged my boots back on and made my way to the great room. There were certain people I was hoping to extract info from, and I figured the group might start to congregate again in anticipation of lunch. In the passageway I saw that the rain had morphed into a light drizzle. It was foggy out, almost steamy, obviously from the effect of the rain hitting the cold snow. I wondered what luck, if any, Scott was having locating a plowman. Or if the police were assisting in this mission.
The only person there turned out to be Richard. He was on the couch reading his iPad, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses perched midway down his nose. He’d clearly just showered because his hair was still damp around the edges, slicked back on both sides, and he smelled of talc. On the table in front of him was a large glass of tomato juice with a celery stalk sticking out of the top. Still into the Bloodies, it appeared.
“You certainly don’t disappoint, Ms. Weggins,” he announced cockily when he saw me.
“In what regard?” I asked, pouring a cup of coffee.
“Your story is already up on the Buzz Web site. You’ve beaten everyone to the punch.”
“Cap and Scott knew it was being filed. I was straight with them.”
“I’m sure you were. It’s amazing, isn’t it, though? You so often seem to be around when a dead body turns up.”
“I guess I’m just a lucky girl,” I said.
“Whatever the reason, I’d be a little careful if I were you.”
“And why is that?” I asked, taking a seat in an armchair across from him. His provocative banter on the walk yesterday had been fun, but today it seemed slicked with meanness. I wondered if it reflected the number of Bloody Marys he’d consumed so far today.
“The police are always suspicious of too many coincidences,” he said. “Coincidences, you see, have a nasty habit of calling attention to something.”
“Ahh, good point,” I said. “Do you think I might be a psychopathic killer and not even know it?”
“Or just a ruthless opportunist,” he said, faking a smile.
I didn’t like his tone one bit, but I wasn’t going to get all pissy about it. I needed to be on his good side so he’d talk to me.
“Why not file a story yourself? Don’t you have a blog on the Huffington Post or someplace like that?”
“I’ve decided to go the more traditional route on this one. I’ll probably do a more in-depth story for Vanity Fair.”
“I look forward to reading it. How was your interview with the police, by the way?”
“Mercifully brief,” he said. “There was really nothing for me to contribute. I did get the feeling, though, that the police are considering foul play. You saw the body—what do you think?”
“There was no sign of that, from what I could see. Off the record, I’m thinking that her death might be connected to an eating disorder. She wouldn’t be the first model who died from one.”
He stared at me for a moment, not saying anything.
“Well, let’s face it,” he said finally. “The only thing she ever did with her food was rearrange it on her plate. It was like watching someone play three-card monte. One minute the green beans are here, and the next minute they’re over there.”
So Richard had observed that, too. “It might have caught up with her this weekend,” I said.
“Well, she never seemed ill, if that’s what you mean. Bored, yes—unless Tommy was around to lock eyes with—and a tad tipsy last night.”
That was possibly the best example in history of the pot calling the kettle black.
“Do you think there was anything going on between Devon and him?” I asked. “Or was it just for show?” I suddenly remembered something Richard had said at breakfast the day before. “I mean, you mentioned yesterday that you’d heard people scurrying around in the hallway during the night. Maybe they reconnected.”