Beau squinted his deep brown eyes at me.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m not tracking.”
“I’m pretty sure the person knew I didn’t have service in Pine Grove. They knew that even if I had my phone with me in the barn, it wouldn’t work.”
“So somehow they knew what carrier you used?”
“Yes. And I know who it is. Or rather who they are. Last weekend two of Scott’s houseguests used my BlackBerry. And I think one of them must be the killer.”
Chapter 21
“Who?” Beau exclaimed.
I stared into my wineglass for a moment, gathering my thoughts before speaking.
“Whitney, for one,” I said. “I loaned her my BlackBerry briefly after Devon died. I know she’s been to Pine Grove before—because she made a comment about the town being some sad little place. And that’s no surprise. Cap was Devon’s manager, and he’d probably driven out there at times and taken Whitney with him.”
“So do you think that Cap really was having an affair with Devon—and Whitney found out about it?”
I shook my head slowly back and forth.
“I just don’t have a good read on that right now,” I said. “Whitney is so adamant that there was nothing going on between Cap and Devon, and she and Cap seem fiercely devoted to each other these days. I’m wondering if something may have been going on earlier, and Whitney just discovered it. Maybe she also found out that Devon had been pregnant with Cap’s baby, which would make the news even harder to stomach.”
“So the whole thing about Cap being unable to have sex could just be bullshit?”
“Well, perhaps he can’t now but could last fall. And here’s a wacky detail to consider. According to Christian, Devon conceived through some kind of fertility treatments. I assumed when he told me that it was in vitro. But what if the fertility issues had involved Cap, not Devon? Devon may have wanted to conceive by him, and he agreed, but he has lupus, and that can affect a man’s ability to have an erection. So perhaps they arranged for Cap’s sperm to be extracted and artificially inseminated.”
“Sounds awfully far-fetched.”
“I know. But there’s something odd about Devon’s whole pregnancy, and I keep wondering if it fits into her murder somehow. One second she’s pregnant, and then all of a sudden the baby’s gone and she’s happily dating Tommy, like the whole thing was barely a blip in her life. Of course, maybe she considered losing the baby a lucky break because she’d just developed the hots for Tommy, and as he told me the other night, he doesn’t—”
I paused in shock. An incredible thought had just flung itself into my brain.
“He doesn’t what?” Beau asked.
“He doesn’t ‘do babies,’ ” I said quietly. “He basically loathes kids. Devon met Tommy in November of last year, when she was a few months pregnant, but probably capable of disguising it with the right outfit. What if she learned about Tommy’s aversion to rug rats—she probably fished for his thoughts on the subject because of her condition—and realized that, unlike Brad Pitt, he wasn’t going to have any interest in dating her when she had a screaming tot in tow. So—so she decided to do something about it.”
“What are you saying exactly?” Beau asked. “That she had an abortion?”
“Yes,” I said. “That she had an abortion.”
Beau shook his head in near disbelief as he poured us each another glug of wine.
“So Devon Barr went through all the trouble of fertility treatments and then ended the pregnancy?” he said. “What kind of woman would do that?”
“A woman like Devon,” I said ruefully. “You know, my mother said something to me yesterday on the phone about how after you’ve had a baby, your life is never the same, and it’s been niggling at me ever since. Devon was totally narcissistic, someone who didn’t give a damn about anything other than her immediate gratification. And while being pregnant worked for her one moment, it didn’t the next. She was afraid that a baby would screw up the life she suddenly envisioned with Tommy.”
“But how would that circle back to Whitney as a suspect?”
“I have no freaking clue,” I said. “But if I’m right and Devon did have an abortion, maybe Whitney’s suspicions were raised for some reason, and in digging deeper, she found out Cap was the father. Perhaps the whole fertility treatment thing was a lie—something Devon made up as a smokescreen to cover up the fact that Cap was the father. And of course, maybe Cap killed Devon when he learned she’d aborted his child. God, my head hurts just thinking about this stuff.
“And,” I added, “there’s a problem with the idea of Whitney as the killer. She seems really caught up in the lifestyle she has with Cap, and she would have known that in murdering Devon, she was slaughtering the golden goose. And yet—I don’t know. I sense there’s something there, but I don’t know what yet.”
“Tell me who else you loaned your phone to.”
“Christian. I tossed it to him when the lights went out.”
“But wouldn’t he have been slaughtering the golden goose, too?”
“True, but Devon may have been holding something over him—something related to the modeling agency. Cap told me that Devon had a complaint she wanted him to share with the head of First Models, but he wouldn’t say what it was about. Maybe it involved Christian, and he was wise to her.”
“What could a model booker have done that would be so bad?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but my guess is that it would involve money.”
I was feeling a little anxious being on the current subject because the name Chris Wickersham seemed dangerously close to the surface. It wouldn’t be hard for Beau to guess that this is why I’d met up with Chris. Time to move off the topic.
“Would you mind if we hit the sack now?” I asked. “Every muscle in my body aches. I guess my lack of training as a hay-bale tosser has caught up with me.”
“Sure,” Beau said. “And why don’t I massage some of those achy muscles for you?” I accepted gratefully.
In the bedroom, Beau gently removed my clothes and lay me down on the bed for my massage. With his strong hands he started with my shoulders and back and eventually worked his way down my arms and legs. I concentrated on the sheer pleasure of the experience. Though ten minutes earlier sex was the furthest thing from my mind, feeling Beau’s hands on my naked body awoke something in me, and before long I felt a strong rush of desire. It was more than just physical. Mentally, I craved a kind of raw, intense connection with Beau. I eased onto my back and reached for him.
“You sure?” he asked in the darkness.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s almost a medical emergency.”
I awoke the next day at eight thirty to clinking and clanging sounds emanating from my kitchen, and when I padded out there, I found Beau making scrambled eggs. Over breakfast he asked what my next move would be as far as the case was concerned. I had thought about that as I was falling asleep the night before, and I realized I was stalled for the time being. I was anxious to look into the abortion theory as best as I could, but I wouldn’t be able to until Monday.
Beau suggested we spend a quiet day together. Still no follow-up on our “commitment” discussion, but I realized that because of what I’d been through, he wasn’t putting any pressure on me. We read the paper, ordered in lunch, and then took a long walk around the Village and a windy Washington Square Park. Every few moments, I found myself glancing over my shoulder. Despite the weather, people sat crouched over some of the chess tables or perched on the edge of the fountain. The killer had come after me twice, and I couldn’t help but worry there might be yet another attempt. After an early dinner on MacDougal Street, we headed back to my place, where Beau once again stayed the night.