Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) Read online

  “Zombies,” I smiled at the two suits. “They’re a big problem in Jubilant Falls.”

  “After you get this, this—” Watterson waved his hand at the four men in the corner of the newsroom. “—settled, I need you to come downstairs and see me in my office.” He turned to his guests and gestured toward the steps and his first-floor office.

  “Yes, sir.” I said with a sigh, wishing I could have a cigarette.

  I walked across the newsroom and put my hand on Mike Birger’s shoulder.

  “Let’s take this into my office where we can all sit down,” I said. “You can fill me in on what really happened once we get the door shut.”

  We shuffled into my office and, tossing my purse on my desk, I sat down behind my desk. Graham sat in one battered wingback; Marcus sat in the other. PJ went back into the newsroom and rolled two desk chairs into the office for himself and Birger. Once we were all settled, I spoke.

  “OK, you guys. What the hell really happened here?”

  “Pretty much what we told you,” Graham said. “She read my story on the suspect being named and wanted her side to be told. She left a message Thursday night and I set this up on Friday for today, so nobody would be in the newsroom when she came.”

  “You knew Mr. Henning was seeking a restraining order against her, didn’t you?” Birger asked.

  “I knew a petition was going to be filed.”

  “The problem that I have with all this is that Mr. Henning’s son here—” Birger motioned toward PJ.

  “My name’s Paul James, Jr., sir. Marcus is my stepdad,” PJ said softly.

  “OK, Paul James, Jr., was told in no uncertain terms just a few days ago that he was not to engage the suspect in any way shape or form because it could compromise the investigation into Mrs. Henning’s shooting. I find it very odd that when this suspect makes herself known, both Paul Junior and his stepfather are here. It’s also a problem that Mr. Henning struck the suspect—”

  “She was coming at me!” Marcus exclaimed. “I had to protect myself!” Marcus and PJ exchanged furtive glances.

  “This is not PJ’s fault,” Graham said firmly. “PJ did not contact her. She contacted me. PJ was with me because we went running earlier this morning. He was going to drop me off here at the paper for my appointment with De Laguerre—I guess that’s her pen name—but he came inside with me because she wasn’t here yet. As soon as we got inside, she called my extension and said she was at the front door. I didn’t think anything about it—I just let her in, brought her up to the newsroom and started the interview. PJ never spoke to her. I did introduce him to her, but only as ‘PJ’ and only as our intern. She couldn’t have known he was related to Marcus.”

  “Do you always run in khaki pants?” Birger asked sharply.

  PJ didn’t answer. Instead he walked out to the newsroom and came back with a duffel bag filled with running clothing.

  “So I changed clothes. I didn’t want to get the seats of my mom’s car dirty. What of it?” he asked.

  “Tell me: How did you get here?” I turned to Marcus.

  “My stepdaughter and her boyfriend took me to visit Kay. I’d loaned PJ the car so he could go running with Graham. On our way home from the hospital, I saw the car parked in front of the paper and asked that Bronson drop me off here. I figured that Graham was probably telling PJ war stories or there had been some breaking news that PJ was able to go along on and I thought I’d just catch a ride home with him. How was I to know Charlie was going to be here?”

  “And tell me again what happened when she saw you?” Birger opened his notebook and flipped back several pages.

  “She ran at me saying how this was such a misunderstanding and was reaching for me when I pushed her away and she struck the filing cabinets.”

  This time, both Graham and PJ looked at the floor. Somebody was bullshitting somebody, I thought, drumming my fingers on my desk. This whole situation stunk, but I had to keep half of my newsroom—and half of my newsroom’s family— out of jail.

  “Where was this De Laguerre person taken?” I asked.

  “She clearly violated the protection order, so she was taken down to the city jail and booked,” Birger said. “She won’t be released until she goes to court Monday, if she can make bail.”

  “And Marcus?”

  Birger sighed. “I have to believe his story, as much as something tells me not to. He won’t be charged.”

  “She said she didn’t shoot my mom and I believe her!” PJ exclaimed. “She said her husband did it, that he wanted to get back at my dad for something and that’s why he took my mom and shot her.”

  “So who is her husband?” I asked.

  Graham pulled a folded photo from the back of the reporter’s notebook he still clutched in his hand and slid it across the desk.

  The face was almost the same—a little older, a lot more battered. His nose was flattened, his uncombed curly hair was more gray than black and the majority of his teeth were missing—and not all of those losses looked like they occurred in his hockey days. His eyes were crazed, the look of a man whose addictions had pushed him into paranoia. His athlete’s frame had gone soft, his stomach straining the limits of the waistband of his jeans and the dirty brown tee shirt he wore; his neck sagged around the collar. There were prison tattoos along his neck and forearms.

  Now it was my turn to be uncomfortable. Should I tell them about Rick’s tale of deception to keep his brother hidden all these years? That we’d tracked Rowan down to a neighborhood in Columbus through cell phone records? That the brothers used a troubled local funeral home to bury what was probably an empty casket? That he’d been sending money to Rowan Starrett on a regular basis?

  If I do, it validates Rick Starrett’s claim that he wasn’t the shooter—then Steve Adolphus has my head on a platter for interfering with a police investigation or obstruction of justice or something.

  And I’ll be fired.

  And if I don’t tell Mike Birger right now, I’m up the same tree—and possibly protecting the same person who shot a staff member’s wife.

  And I’ll be fired.

  I pulled the photo I’d carried all morning from my purse and laid it along side Graham’s photo. The color drained from Marcus’s face.

  Even Mike Birger was shocked. “Oh my God. That’s Rowan Starrett,” he said.

  “Who’s Rowan Starrett?” PJ asked.

  “Local hockey player. He’s supposed to be dead—committed suicide after he got out of federal prison,” Birger said. “His brother, Rick, is being held on murder charges for the death of Virginia Ferguson, who ran against him for state senator.”

  “Charlie never called him Rowan,” Graham flipped through his notes. “She referred to him as... uhhhh…” He flipped through a few more pages. “Deke. Deke Howe.”

  “Sounds like a name straight out of a bad romance novel,” Birger smirked.

  “Rowan Starrett’s not dead,” I said. “I talked to Rick at the jail and he says that it was Rowan who shot Virginia Ferguson. Rick’s ex-wife June confirmed to me that Rowan is still alive and that Rick has been sending money to him on a regular basis. Rick hasn’t seen Rowan face to face in several years, though. We hadn’t done a story on it yet because I was in Columbus trying to piece together as much as I could.”

  “Steve Adolphus isn’t going to be happy with you,” Graham said.

  Birger nodded in agreement.

  “Steve Adolphus isn’t happy with me now,” I said. “Rick told me all this stuff in the jailhouse conference room in the presence of his attorney. The entire conversation was recorded and he came down on me pretty hard. I was told to back off and I didn’t.”

  “Kay kept saying that it was a man with incredibly bad breath who did this to her,” Marcus said. “I didn’t believe her.”

  “After listening to the voicemails on your phone, we were convinced that it was a male,” Birger said. “But when you told us the story about Ms. De Laguerre, we could see where her
voice could sound like a man’s, so we went in that direction.”

  “I thought it was a man on my voicemail when she left me a message to contact her,” Graham said.

  “She told us her visit to Mom’s hospital room was really a warning,” PJ said. “She’s afraid of Deke—he’s threatened her life, too. She knew she couldn’t just waltz into the hospital, particularly after reading the story in the paper, and tell Mom she was in trouble.”

  “I can’t believe you all believe her sad tale!” Marcus said, exasperated. “The woman turns her victim acts on and off like a light switch!”

  “So what happens now?” I asked.

  “We need to open Rowan Starrett’s grave, dig up that casket and find out who, if anybody, is buried there,” Birger said.

  “And that approval will come from whom? His next of kin?” I asked. “So would that be his brother the murder suspect or his sister-in-law the stalker? Or would it be his mother?”

  “Actually, his mother is dead. She died several years ago,” Graham said. “That’s what apparently started Deke’s—or Rowan’s—whole downward spiral.”

  Birger shook his head. “Probably neither—the probate judge will make the decision. Regardless, it won’t be for at least 24 hours, more than likely Monday—and, if I have anything to say about it, there won’t be any media present.” He stood and reached for my office door. “See you folks later,” he said.

  I buried my face in my hands and sighed, then reached for a cigarette in my desk drawer.

  “Jesus, it’s been a day and a half,” I said. I turned to face the window behind me and threw it open, lit my cigarette and drew the sweet calming nicotine into my lungs. The cold November air filled my office.

  “What do we do now, Addison?” Graham asked.

  “We do a story,” I said. “Right now, though, I’ve got to go downstairs and talk to Watt and those two suits he had with him. Marcus, you and PJ go home. Graham, we need to talk some more before you put this story together. There are some details I haven’t filled you in on, though. I need to do a couple more things and then let’s set something up for Sunday some time. We’ll do the story then.”

  He nodded and the three of them stood up, as if on cue.

  “Get the hell out of here, all of you,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Without speaking, the three men left, closing my office door behind them.

  I sank back against my office chair and drew more cigarette smoke into my lungs.

  God, where do we go from here? I would have to think long and hard about what all to tell Gary McGinnis that I’d found out about Rick Starrett. I needed to talk to Rick’s attorney, Anna Henrickssen, and let her know I needed to talk to him again. But what do I want to ask her? What do I want to tell the chief? It was all too much.

  Right now, I needed to head downstairs. Who were the two suits Watt wanted me to meet? And what had Dennis been telling me earlier this week? The office gossip was that more furloughs were coming. Watt’s retirement had also been a long awaited event; his high-maintenance daughter had wanted him to retire for ages. Suddenly, it hit me: these folks could be buyers.

  As many small newspapers struggled through the recession, a lot of larger chains were circling like vultures, picking up smaller, family-owned publications for a song. Many times, they’d buy up a paper, gut the management, replacing editors with “content managers” and writers with “content providers,” asking journalists to become “multi-platform,” providing print and Web copy, shooting and editing video while tweeting out details of the upcoming story to subscriber’s smart phones. It resulted in a lot of bad journalism in a lot of simultaneous places, rather than one excellent story on just the front page.

  I took a final drag on my cigarette, tossed it into the alley below and closed the window.

  So was it a pair of corporate vultures waiting for me downstairs? And if not, who were they? Well, hell. If they were buyers, how much latitude would I have? Could we continue to pursue the stories we’d done in the past? Would something like the Starrett brothers’ story get a green light? Who knows? I honestly didn’t know how Watt was going to react when I put the whole situation in front of him. But if I was going to be fired, I might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

  Chapter 27 Marcus

  I was silent until we got outside of the Journal-Gazette, slipped in the Lexus and shut the doors.

  “You never did go running, did you?” I asked.

  PJ gave me the house keys holding the Lexus key fob and shook his head.

  “No. I couldn’t let you know that Graham heard from her,” he said, hanging his head. “But I never, ever talked to her, never identified myself as your son. Graham never identified me as anything but PJ the intern. He did all the talking, asked all the questions. I just listened.”

  The car engine began to purr as I pushed the ignition button. “Probably wise. Stick to that story. Before this is all over, we may end up in court,” I replied quietly.

  We pulled into the sparse Saturday traffic, both of us silent as I came to the first stoplight. The light turned green and I steered the car into a left turn, heading for home.

  “So what did she tell you?” I asked. How much of that drunken night in Seattle did he hear? How much did Charlie embellish it? Or was she so drunk she didn’t remember and just thought that we’d spent the night in some sort of intoxicated tryst when she woke up in my hotel room?

  “She’s been through a lot, Dad,” he began.

  “The first rule of journalism is to assume everybody is lying to you, at worst, or, at best, has some kind of agenda,” I replied sharply. “I would argue that Charlie represents both of those situations. I hope you didn’t fall for her story. She hasn’t exactly been the victim in all this.”

  He nodded. “I agree—but she’s claiming that this all started when you guys met on the plane to Seattle.”

  “It did.”

  “Charlie said she went into rehab six months after you guys met in Seattle, for alcohol dependence. It wasn’t her first time. She and her husband Deke—or Rowan, or whoever he is— are both addicts, she said. They met six years ago in rehab and got married after they got out.”

  “What was Deke’s drug of choice?”

  “Pills, gambling I guess, and alcohol. They stayed sober for a while, and then started using again, this time worse. Charlie went back to drinking. She said she was drinking pretty heavily during her book tour.”

  PJ was silent for a moment.

  “Dad, what happened between you and her in Seattle?”

  I took a deep breath. “We were drinking. She came on to me, I said no.”

  “Why didn’t you include that when you first told us about Charlie?”

  “I didn’t think it was something that you needed to know. You all may be adults now, but there are still things that parents keep secret.” I sighed. “And I thought your sister wouldn’t take it well, no matter what I said.”

  “Probably—she’s such a drama queen. Charlie said she woke up in your hotel room, but you weren’t there. Said she was so drunk she couldn’t remember whether or not anything happened.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to your mother,” I said firmly. “Charlie passed out. My door was half opened, so I brought her in the hotel room, laid her on the bed and found myself another room for the night.” He didn’t need to hear that I found her thong wrapped around my wallet.

  PJ sighed. “Charlie said Mom called in the morning. She said she laughed and said something off-color when Mom asked her where you were. Mom got pissed and hung up.”

  “Oh God. What did she say?”

  “She said, she said…” PJ’s face colored to the roots of his hair. “That you were probably off signing someone else’s flyleaf the way she’d gotten hers signed.”

  There was an empty bank parking lot to my right. I pulled the Lexus into the lot, put it in park and laid my head on the steering wheel. Only Charlie could make an autograph session sound dirty.


  “It’s a wonder your mother didn’t divorce me right then,” I whispered. “Charlie and I never had sex, PJ. I have never been unfaithful to your mother.”

  PJ sank against the car door. “I know, Dad.”

  Without lifting my head, I asked, “What else did she say?”

  “She said she pretty well stayed drunk for the next couple months, then went into rehab. As part of rehab she said she was supposed to ask for forgiveness from the people she’d hurt while she was using. You were one of those people she was trying to make amends with, but when she called the house, you wouldn’t ever call back.”

  “She called constantly—you know that,” I said. “Would you have called her back?”

  “No. I really think she’s kind of nuts, whether she’s sober or not. Is she the reason why we changed our phone number?”

  “Yes. What else did she say?”

  “Apparently Deke didn’t go back into rehab with her—but she felt she needed to apologize to him for the way she acted during the book tour. She told him the story and he went ballistic, said he was going after us to get back at you.”

  “Did Detective Birger hear all this?”

  “Yes. What’s worse, she said Deke disappeared at the beginning of last month, right after she got out of rehab, and she hasn’t seen him since.”

  I sat up straight and stared at the roof of the car.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think this guy is really that dead hockey player?”

  I’d been at the Journal-Gazette when Addison reported the death of Rowan Starrett, as well as the stories of his run-ins with the law and his ban from professional hockey. I wasn’t involved in covering any of it, since I covered the city and county beats, but kept up with the story in the same way someone can’t stop watching any kind of train wreck. And ten years ago, Rowan Starrett was Jubilant Falls’ favorite celebrity train wreck.

  That Rowan was still alive and being blamed for Kay’s shooting and a politician’s murder was stunning.

  “I have no idea, son,” I said. “It’s a little crazy, but I guess it’s possible, if his brother has been in on the whole thing, like Addison said.”