Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) Page 10

  By Addison McIntyre

  Managing Editor

  Former professional hockey play and Jubilant Falls native Rowan Starrett was laid to rest today in Founder’s Cemetery, following the discovery of his suicide Sunday.

  More than 100 people, including his brother, former city manager Rick Starrett, fans, former NHL players and family members, attended the graveside ceremony, where the Plummer County native’s athletic accomplishments were remembered.

  Rowan Starrett was the goalie for the 1997 Stanley Cup-winning Detroit Red Wings team and still holds the all-time NCAA goaltending record.

  What was not discussed was Starrett’s highly publicized battle with a gambling addiction and drugs that let to a conviction for fraud. The conviction resulted in a prison sentence and his banishment from professional hockey for the remainder of his life. Rowan had been released from prison six months ago and had just moved to Columbus, according to Rick Starrett when Rowan didn’t show up for their mother’s birthday dinner.

  Pat had taken a photo from a respectful distance, showing a large group of people dressed in black, as the casket was unloaded from the back of an unmarked hearse.

  I skipped down several paragraphs to the end of the story and found what I was looking for: Services were under the direction of the Hepplewhite Funeral Home.

  Hepplewhite Funeral Homes was an odd choice for the Starrett family, I thought at the time. Prominent residents of Jubilant Falls, like the Starrett family, were known to use some of the more upscale funeral homes, located up and down the northern edge of downtown on Detroit Street. They’d been the big, gaudy Victorian homes of Jubilant Falls’ early industrialists and now had fleets of hearses in what had been coach houses and parking lots where expansive yards had once been.

  Not Hepplewhite—their funerals were politely referred to as “budget” and they attracted those families whose concern with grandma’s send-off was more financial than filial. A number of their obituaries ended with “Memorial contributions may be made to the funeral home to help defray expenses” and more often than not, the checks to cover the cost of those obituaries came slowly.

  Would a fat check from Rick Starrett have covered up a small detail like an empty casket and helped an ailing family business?

  The business had been sold a few years after Rowan’s death, after the home mistakenly cremated a family member against the survivor’s wishes. There had been a nasty civil suit against the home and an investigation by the state funeral director’s board. Bob Hepplewhite surrendered his license, sold his business and retired to Vero Beach, but not before he’d stuck a bony finger in my face and let me know what he thought about the Journal-Gazette splashing the story all over the front page.

  “You forget, Missy, how many obituaries I’ve put in this paper and how much money that cost me,” he’d sputtered. “And you pay me back like this? When your time comes, I hope somebody drops your casket.”

  Hepplewhite’s was bought by a funeral home from Cincinnati and was now called the Hepplewhite-Cedars Funeral Home, and the new funeral director Arianna Jones, gladly continued to put obituaries in my paper, as well as pay for them on time.

  I’d have to pay a visit to Ms. Jones the first chance I got. Maybe even on the way home this evening.

  I picked up a pen and began to make notes.

  What about the name Rowan was living under? How could I find that out? Was that something he was given through federal witness protection? Was he even part of witness protection? That was probably not likely, since he was in touch with his brother. That would have been forbidden if he were, unless he was violating the terms of his agreement and his handlers didn’t know it.

  I bounced the tip of my pen off my chin. Rick said Rowan needed to disappear to hide from people he still owed money to. But if Rick was sending him money on a regular basis, what was it for? Was he still gambling? Did he still do drugs?

  Or was he unable to find employment and Rick’s money was his sole support? The vicious TV commercials and Rick’s defeat at the polls could have meant Rowan no longer had a source of income. Could that have sent Rowan, dependent on his brother’s checks, over the edge? Defeating one could have meant defeating them both—and Rowan would want revenge.

  Rick had said that it was those commercials that sent Rowan to Virginia Ferguson’s door. Was it the loss of Rick’s future income—or Rick’s honor—that Rowan sought to avenge? Was it fear that no more checks would be coming? Was it a fear that his death would be uncovered as a farce?

  It had been ten years. A lot could happen to someone over that many years. Rowan had married; maybe he’d even had children, and turned into one of those church-going suburban types whose murderous secrets lay just below the surface.

  I picked up my notebook and my purse. It was time to visit Ms. Arianna Jones and at least take the first step toward finding Rowan Starrett.

  Chapter 18 Marcus

  “Oh for goodness sake Marcus, climb down off the edge of that cliff. I know I said sister-in-law.” A woman’s voice, twanging with our Appalachian past, was on the other end of the phone line. It had to be my sister.

  “Calpurnia, where are you calling from?” I plugged my other ear with my finger to hear her better. “You’re popping in and out and there’s a weird electronic hum in the background every time you say something. Sounds like you’re in the bottom of a well.”

  “Well, you sound just fine. Maybe it’s the connection that got everything confused. I hope she doesn’t misunderstand medication instructions.”

  I exhaled. “Sorry.”

  “So how is Kay?”

  “She’s pretty doped up but the nurses think she’s going to make it. The doctor will be here pretty soon to check on her.”

  Calpurnia and I had received our names thanks to our mother’s love of Roman history. I was named for the philosopher king, Marcus Aurelius; she inherited the name of Caesar’s perfect wife. A fourth-grade teacher, Cal and her husband Dave had two children, the twins Dodd and Deena and lived the perfect family life in a perfect suburban home just outside of our hometown of Chillicothe. No one ever threatened Calpurnia, unless it was a ten-year-old angry about a bad grade on a spelling test.

  She’d been one of the first people I’d called after Kay got out of surgery. This wasn’t a call to check in before she went to work. Cal was in class by this time of the morning.

  “Have the police been back to talk to you?”

  “Yes—they’re still looking into who did it. “

  “Mamma is just so tore up over the whole situation. She and Daddy want to come up to the hospital to visit when you say it’s OK.”

  “Now is not a good time. I’ll let you know when things get better,” I said.

  “OK. Well, stay in touch, you hear? I don’t like it when things are tough for my favorite little brother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The call disconnected and I knew I’d been had. Shaking, I handed the phone back to the nurse.

  “Can you tell me the number that call came from?”

  She shook her head. “The caller ID said it was a blocked number. The woman really did identify herself to me as your wife’s sister.”

  “Just so you know, my wife doesn’t have a sister—she’s an only child.”

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry—”

  “Not your fault. You couldn’t have known that. I need to call someone—excuse me.”

  Out in the hall, I dialed Calpurnia’s number at school. The secretary picked it up on the third ring.

  “May I speak to Calpurnia Harbine?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, she’s in the classroom right now.” The voice on the other end of the phone was singsong, perky and professional, perfect for dealing with small children and parents. “Her planning period isn’t until this afternoon. I can leave a message for her to call you then.”

  “I’m returning her call—it’s urgent. I just spoke to her a few minutes ago.”

  “I’m
sorry, she hasn’t been here in the office to make any phone calls,” the voice said. “Unless she called you from her cell phone in class.”

  “Let me try that number then. Thank you.”

  Calpurnia picked up on the first ring. “Marcus, is Kay alright? I’m in the middle of a reading group.” The tone of her voice was familiar and strong— even the sound of her Southern Ohio twang seemed right, and the cell phone connection was clear.

  “You didn’t just try to call me at the hospital, did you?”

  “No. Why?”

  *****

  There were police guards at Kay’s hospital room door within minutes and the staff were instructed to log all phone calls and numbers. I gave them a list of names and approved phone numbers—anyone who wasn’t on that list couldn’t speak to Kay or me.

  I was shaken to my core.

  Charlie had found me and called the ICU, masquerading as my sister. She’d slipped up when she called me her favorite little brother. I was older than Calpurnia by two years—and there weren’t any other brothers.

  Kay’s surgeon arrived and stepped into her room briefly to examine her.

  “I see you took my advice,” he said, looking up from her chart and nodding at the police guards.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t have a choice,” I said.

  The doctor looked over his reading glasses at me. “Not if you love your wife you don’t,” he said. He closed her chart and handed it to the nurse behind the counter. “She’s going to be OK, but it’s going to take a while. We’re going to keep her sedated for a little while longer. You need to go home and get some sleep.”

  *****

  The same house, the same garage—somehow it seemed very, very different. I pushed the remote control garage door opener on the sun visor. I pulled Kay’s Lexus into the garage—my battered van was still impounded at the police department and hadn’t been released to me yet. The stuff stacked in the garage—the boxed-up artificial Christmas tree, the ornaments, kids’ bikes, my tools—seemed like part of a life I could never return to. Everything would change now to protect us from what I had inadvertently brought into our lives—and by ignoring it, allowed to fester.

  Hunched over a bowl of cereal at the kitchen island, PJ was the only one home.

  “Hey Dad,” he said in greeting, as I tossed my keys onto the counter top. “How’s Mom?”

  I nodded. “She’s going to make it, looks like. Where’s everybody else?”

  “Lillian and Andy took what’s-his-name on a tour of Jubilant Falls.”

  “Oh come on—give the guy a chance! He can put up with your sister, can’t he?” He’d be surprised, I thought, when he learned Bronson wants to marry his sister.

  “Yeah, I suppose. Can we talk about something?”

  “Your intention to quit MIT?”

  “Yeah—it’s just—I mean, I want to do what you do.”

  “Doing what I do carries some risks.”

  “I know that. I’ve grown up seeing the stories you wrote and the people you’ve pissed off,” he said. “Wait a minute—” PJ’s almond-shaped eyes opened wide. “One of your stories didn’t get mom shot, did it?”

  “No, son, not one of my stories from work.” No sense spilling my guts now. The story would come out, but all the kids needed to be here when I told them.

  “It just seems like you get things done. You get things to change.”

  I wanted to tell him that all the pundits said newspapers were dying, that the business was more and more driven by a 24-hour news cycle that didn’t have an off button or a rewind key, that the pay was bad and the hours worse and if it wasn’t for his very patient mother who made enough money to keep us all afloat, I would have long ago sold my soul to some corporate giant and become something other than what I really was.

  I wanted to tell him that politicians hacking away at the state’s public records law made it damn near impossible to get at the truth, and telling both sides of an unembellished story wasn’t what a lot of folks wanted these days.

  And while some stories I could write with my eyes closed, there never was a day I didn’t encounter something that reminded me of my own —and the world’s— capacity for good or evil.

  I also had to tell him about all the trouble one story could cost him.

  I’d come to Jubilant Falls after I’d bought a couple of beers for a sequestered juror on a Missouri murder case. After three or four Bud Lights, and knowing full well I was a reporter, he’d told me they were hopelessly deadlocked. I reported that before the judge knew it and the next day I became unemployed.

  My next job brought me here, to the Jubilant Falls Journal-Gazette and I’d built a very happy life here in this odd little Ohio town.

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” I said, leaning on my elbows on the kitchen island. “It can be a god-awful job. In between the long hours and the low pay, you’ll see your fair share of things that will break your heart, turn your stomach or both.”

  “I don’t want to go back to MIT, Dad,” PJ said. “I don’t. I want to do what you do.”

  “You’re still going to need some kind of college.”

  “I know. I can’t get into another school though, until at least spring term. Can you talk to your boss and see if I can do an internship or something?”

  “I guarantee it would be unpaid, if I can even get Addison to say yes.”

  “Look, it would give me the chance to see if being a journalist is what I really want to do,” he pleaded.

  “You’re giving up a full scholarship to MIT. You’d better know what the hell you want!” I exclaimed.

  “Dad, I hate Cambridge. Hate it in the worst way possible. I hate MIT, hate my professors, and hate my roommates who live like pigs and have no social skills at all.”

  “Why did you want to go then?”

  “It was a full ride! How could I turn that down?”

  “You didn’t have to go if you didn’t like it, son.”

  “I guess.”

  “I have to admit, your mom and I figured you’d major in a science of some kind, so we thought MIT would be a good fit for you.”

  “Well, Andy majored in aeronautical engineering at the Air Force Academy, so I kind of figured maybe science was for me too. I guess it’s not.”

  “If you think this is what you want to do, you know we’ll support you.” I cringed inside as I thought of the sudden financial burden changing schools would bring, on top of whatever hospital bills Kay was incurring.

  His shoulders sagged in relief. “I've been scared to death that you would be pissed off I wanted to quit MIT and start again someplace else,” he said.

  “It happens,” I said. I stepped around the counter to hug him. “Sometimes some schools aren’t the fit we thought they’d be. I’ll go in and talk to Addison about getting you an internship, OK?”

  He nodded. “Mom’s going to be OK, isn’t she?”

  “I think so, son. I think so.” I rubbed my eyes with my fists. “Right now, I just need some sleep.”

  Chapter 19 Addison

  Arianna Jones looked like she should have played for the WNBA. Over six feet tall with long, disproportionate limbs, her corn rowed hair was pulled back into a ponytail of long black braids down her back. Her large, masculine hand reached out to shake mine.

  We were standing in the foyer of the Hepplewhite-Cedars Funeral Home. It hadn’t changed a whole lot since Rowan’s funeral. The new owners put on a coat of fresh paint and installed more up-to-date décor, but cracked walls still showed beneath the new warmer colors.

  “Yes, we have records from Hepplewhite burials,” she said in a voice designed to comfort a family—or soothe late night radio listeners.

  “From like ten years ago?” I asked.

  “Yes. What was the decedent’s name?”

  “Rowan Starrett.”

  Jones nodded and motioned me to follow her back into the office.

  Like the rest of the business, the office was dark and worn. I
took a seat on a battered office chair as she scanned a wall of cabinets, stopping to pull a file.

  “Found it. What did you need to know?” she asked.

  “I need to know if there was a body in the casket.”

  She looked at me oddly as she flipped through the file.

  “Hmm,” she said after a moment of silence.

  “What?”

  “The casket arrived sealed. The staff at the time never opened it.”

  “Was there any notation as to the weight of it? Was it heavy or light?”

  “No. Nothing.” Jones looked at me, her eyebrows knitted together.

  “Do you have a copy of the death certificate?” Hopefully, she did. It would save me a trip to Columbus or hours on the computer or phone ordering one.

  “It’s not common practice for funeral homes to keep death certificates,” Jones said, without looking up. “You’d have to get that from the county where Mr. Starrett died. As for what we have on hand here, there have been problems with Mr. Hepplewhite’s record-keeping before. Hmmm…wait a minute. The casket arrived from a funeral home in Columbus. That’s odd.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Columbus isn’t that far away. Why didn’t that funeral home just handle the graveside services themselves?”

  “It wouldn’t have been a professional courtesy to hand the services over to a local funeral home?”

  Jones shrugged. “Not in my experience. That’s two times the money for the family. Why would they do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Adrianna dropped her soothing funeral director voice. “Honey, I’m not firing up my hearse for free, I don’t care where your family member died. I’m not hauling no casket for nothing!”

  “That makes sense,” I conceded. “What was the funeral home’s name?” A few phone calls, maybe an hour drive up and back and I could find out if there really was a body in that casket.

  “Sanderson-Phillips and Son. They closed seven years ago.”

  I sighed. So much for that thought. “OK. Thanks for everything, Arianna.”