Holding the candle, I crossed the room and pulled the table away from the door. I opened it just a hair. Surprise, surprise. Jane was standing there, flashlight in hand. Her mass of dark hair was pinned to the top of her head and she was wearing a pink sweatshirt.
“Did I wake you?” she asked without sounding as if she cared.
“Nope.”
“Mind if I come in? I want to talk to you.”
“Sure,” I said as she followed me into the room with a curious glance toward the table I’d used as a barricade.
“I’m sorry if I was rude earlier,” she said. “This hasn’t been a breeze for me, as you might imagine.”
“Devon’s death—or working for her?”
“Both.”
She’d lowered the flashlight, and was illuminated only by the light of the candle. Her dark brown eyes were hollows in her large face.
“So what’s on your mind?” I asked.
“I Googled you during the day, and I was pretty surprised by what I saw.”
“How so?”
“You’re a really respected crime reporter, aren’t you? You don’t write all that crap about who’s screwing who or who gave the paparazzi a beaver shot while getting out of the car.”
“No, I don’t write that stuff,” I said. What was she up to? I wondered. An ornery bear like Jane didn’t start acting all nicey-nice without a damn good reason.
“You think Devon’s death is going to be a big story?” she asked. “I mean, will it be all over the news for days and days?”
“That’s going to depend a lot on what the autopsy reveals,” I said. “If it turns out that Devon died from complications from an eating disorder, it will make the cover of all the tabloids this week and then there’ll be some follow-up the next week about which rock stars showed at her funeral. And I assume the morning shows will all do segments on bulimia and anorexia. But then it will probably quiet down—except for maybe one long piece by someone like Richard in Vanity Fair. Why—are you worried about how the media circus will impact you?”
“Yeah—I mean, of course. But I don’t understand why you think the story will die so quickly. Remember Anna Nicole Smith? Didn’t her story go on and on for weeks?”
“Yeah, but that’s because there were all those crazy layers—like who was the baby’s father. When details keep unfolding each week, then the press stays on a story.”
“I see what you mean.”
“If Devon had been dating anyone hot right now, that would provide a little extra drama, but as you pointed out, she was single at the moment.” I paused, watching Jane bite her chubby lower lip in the candlelight. “Right?”
“Ummm, I guess.”
“If there’s something you want to talk about and it’s pressworthy, I promise not to attribute it to you in any way.”
“There is something, actually,” she said. She looked off in this exaggerated way, as if she was trying to make up her mind to tell me, but I sensed it was for show, that she’d come to my room for just this purpose. “I didn’t say anything to the police about it—because it clearly doesn’t have anything to do with Devon’s death—but I feel I should tell someone. I mean, it just seems wrong not to. And since you’re interested in the facts, and not just idle gossip—”
Spit it out! I wanted to shout, but I knew better than to pounce.
“I’m happy to listen,” I said, “but only if you feel like sharing.”
She turned her eyes back toward me.
“It’s Cap,” she said. “There was something going on between him and Devon.”
I’d had my suspicions, of course, but the news gave me a little jolt. And it certainly shed fresh light on the words I’d overheard Cap say on the deck. Devon’s “You’d better tell her” comment must have referred to Whitney after all.
“A little fling—or more like a full-blown affair?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, since I only realized this weekend that something was definitely up with them. I always thought there might be something, but I never had any evidence. Then yesterday, I spotted them kissing in the woods.”
“Do you remember what time?” I asked. I wondered how this particular incident connected to the crying jag of Devon’s that I’d witnessed near the outbuildings.
“Umm, not long after breakfast, I’d say. I didn’t want to do the whole hiking thing, but Scott said there was a pretty stream down an easy path and I decided to go wander down there. I didn’t even know Devon had left her room—the last I’d seen her, she was drinking her stupid green tea in bed. But there she was in this major lip lock with Cap. I didn’t want them to see me, so I snuck out of there and hightailed it back to the barn.”
So then what had Devon been crying about? Her tears hadn’t seemed like the kind you shed when you are hopelessly in love with a man who might not leave his wife. She had said, “Someone knows something.” Had she been afraid Whitney had learned the truth?
“I appreciate your telling me this,” I said. “If there is any reason that it belongs in the story, and I decide to use it, I won’t mention your name. Can I get your cell number, just in case I need to reach you?”
“Sure,” she said. She dictated it as I typed it into my BlackBerry. “I appreciate your listening. There’s something creepy about her manager becoming involved with her like that. Don’t they have a name for that—a Svengali complex or something?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“I better get going. I don’t like being out of my room with all the lights out—and Devon’s body lying down there.”
I let her out and watched her tentatively make her way back down the corridor.
The wick of my candle was starting to sputter, in danger of being suffocated by a pool of hot melted wax. I quickly undressed, blew out the flame and crawled into bed. The room was pitch-black. As I lay on my back, praying for the sheets to warm, I mulled over Jane’s revelation about Cap. If it turned out someone had actually killed Devon—though I had no clue how—that meant that both Cap and Whitney were suspects. Sexual jealousy was one of the biggest motivators of homicide. I felt particularly curious about why Jane had spilled the beans. Jane hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Devon, and it was hard to believe the “I feel I should tell someone” motive.
I could sense I wasn’t going to fall asleep easily. I scooted back up in bed, and for the next hour or so, I read by the beam of the flashlight. Finally, with my eyes growing weary, I switched off the flashlight and wriggled down under the covers.
Earlier it had seemed so deadly quiet in my room, but now I began to pick up little noises: the fire crackling in the stove; the wind rattling the window; the ice snapping on the trees outside. Eventually, I felt my body sag into the mattress, and sleep overtook me.
And then something was stirring me. I had no clue what it was, but my heart had begun to beat faster. I raised myself up in bed and cocked my head, straining to hear. The noise was coming from the hallway. Footsteps. Was it Jessie? I wondered.
Then there was another noise: the sound of something scratching on wood farther down the hall. I leaned forward in bed as my heart gathered speed. The scratching sound happened again. It was to the left of my room, near the door to Jessie’s room. What in the world was going on? I wondered. And then the scratching was happening right outside my room. Someone was running an object back and forth across my door. It sounded as if the thing was made of metal, like a coat hanger but thicker. With a gasp I realized it could be a knife.