“Oh, is that it?” he said, disbelievingly. “Well, who am I to know how your wonderful brand of journalism works?”
So that might explain why he was goading me. He obviously felt burned from all the coverage over the past few days, and saw me as entrenched in the enemy camp.
“What I’d really like to concentrate on for the moment is Devon and this past weekend,” I said, rushing off the subject. “I have a few big concerns.”
“As long as we’re still off the record, I’m willing to talk with you,” Scott said. “Because I’ve got a vested interest in knowing as much as I can. That incident with the doors still bugs the hell out of me. Why would someone pull a fucking stunt like that?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss. Have you any idea yet who might have done it?”
“The cops checked for fingerprints on the branding iron and apparently didn’t find any. Of course, what good would it do? They don’t have any of the houseguests’ prints to compare anything to.”
“And you didn’t turn up any clues yourself?”
“Just a small one courtesy of Cap on Sunday. His bedroom was at the base of the stairs in the guest barn, and not long after the time you took your spill, he woke to the sound of someone bounding up the stairs.”
That seemed to be another clue pointing to Jane. Because she was the only one on the top floor besides me, Jessie, and Devon—and Devon sure as hell hadn’t done it. Scott eyed me questioningly, as if he suspected I knew something. But I wasn’t going to out Jane to him.
“Let me think about that,” I told him. “Anything else that emerged later? Anything that Ralph or Sandy might have noticed?”
“About the night raider?”
“Or about Devon. Her death. Things leading up to it.”
“What do you mean? What are you suggesting, exactly?”
“Frankly, I’ve been wondering if Devon might have been murdered. Like I mentioned to you on Sunday, she told me she was afraid that someone knew something. And then suddenly she was dead.”
He shook his head, borderline exasperated. “I know you were hot on some theory like that last weekend, and I admit I had moments of concern—the stuff pinched from her bathroom, the missing keys. But the police were very clear. She died due to her eating disorder.”
“But what if someone pushed it along a little? She kept complaining that the bottled water tasted funny?”
Scott snorted. “Wait, are you suggesting someone doctored the water? Yeah, Devon complained about the water, but she also said the sheets were itchy and the sink in the bathroom didn’t drain fast enough. And besides, who would want her dead? She was making a load of money for most of us.”
“Do you think there’s any chance Cap and Devon were having an affair?” I asked.
“No way,” he said emphatically. “Skinny rocker was more her type. Though I sure as hell hope she appreciated all Cap had done for her. When he first took her on, I bet he thought her career would evolve into something beyond modeling—movies, or even reality TV, à la Heidi Klum. From what I hear, though, she was a total dud in front of a video camera. But then he found out she could sing, and he really pushed her. I believe her career as a performer could have been big. I’m not talking Rihanna or Katy Perry big, but still, a major success.”
“You said you hope she appreciated Cap. Why wouldn’t she?”
“Devon was fickle. She changed her mind easily. I don’t think there was any immediate danger of her dumping Cap, but I could see he was very careful with her—bending over backwards to please her. When she said itchy sheets, he made damn sure they got changed.”
“And what about her relationship with Christian? Could that have been strained?”
“Strained? I hardly think so. She asked me to include him.”
“But Tory told me Devon gave him the cold shoulder all weekend.”
“Maybe she was—”
He’d been gesturing as he spoke, and when he paused, his hand did too, midair above his coffee cup.
“What?” I prodded.
He made a noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort.
“There may have been something up, now that I think about it,” he said. “I’d arranged the place cards on the table for dinner and Sandy told me that at around seven o’clock, Devon came in and switched a few of the cards around. I figured it was so she could sit next to Tommy and fondle his groin with her foot. But originally she’d been seated next to Christian. Maybe the real story was that she didn’t want to sit next to him.”
He drained the last of his coffee cup, and I knew he was going to want to be on the move soon. I started poking with a fork at my untouched omelet in the hopes of encouraging him to hang around. But it didn’t work. He pulled his wallet from the pocket of his pants.
“Look, I know you have to split,” I said, “but I’d love a phone number for Sandy—and one for Laura too. I want to double-check with them that nothing seemed amiss.”
“I already talked to them before I left,” he said.
“But something may have occurred to them since then. If we want to get to the bottom of this, I think it’s essential to talk to them.”
“All right,” he said, reluctantly. “But I don’t want them harassed in any way.” He tugged an iPhone out of his coat pocket, asked for my cell number, and then texted me numbers for both women. “And this is a two-way street, remember?” he said. “If you learn anything important, I want to know.”
“Sure,” I lied.
I tried to pick up the check, but he insisted and tossed down a tip that was almost as much as the bill. Out on the street, he buttoned his coat with one hand and then pulled the collar up against the cold.
“Are you going to the funeral service?” I asked as people rushed by us on their way to midtown offices.
“Of course. I assume you’ll be covering it?”
“Probably not,” I said, fighting the urge to look away. “I’ve got other things to do on the story.”
“Really?” he said. “I would have thought that the funeral would be one of the plums of covering Devon Barr’s death.”
There was that goading thing again. A thought flashed in my mind: Could I have annoyed Scott so much that he’d tried to derail my career with Sherrie’s help?
I didn’t say anything, just studied his face. He didn’t give anything away.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll see our friend Richard out there,” he said. “I bet he’s all over this”
“Actually, he told me he probably wasn’t going to do a story on Devon, after all.”
“Don’t kid yourself. He was probably trying to throw you off the scent. He’s more than interested in Devon Barr. In fact, he nearly begged me to let him come last weekend. Since it meant a possible story in Vanity Fair, I was hardly going to turn the man down.”
“But—,” I said, flipping through my memory. “I thought you’d invited him—because you wanted him to do a story.”
“Nope,” he said. “I ran into him at a party, and somehow the weekend came up. He nearly foamed at the mouth when I told him Devon was going to be there. He all but guaranteed me the story if I let him freeload.”
I knew I wasn’t remembering incorrectly. Richard had made a point of saying that Scott had pressed him into coming. Why had he lied to me? I wondered.
Scott glanced toward Seventh Avenue, obviously checking out the cab situation.
“By the way, have you met Devon’s mother before?” I asked hurriedly.