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

  I pulled my sheet of questions from my purse. “Here’s the questions I need to ask Rick,” I said as I handed it to her. “The sooner you can get it to me, the better.”

  “OK.” Anna looked over the questions. “A lot of these are the same ones the police want to ask him and I won’t let him answer. You have to understand I can’t have my whole case laid out on the front page before we get to trial.”

  “Then why have me do this at all?” I asked, flabbergasted. “I’m not a PR machine! Did he think I was going to print some sort of one-sided story that would save his ass? I’m not going to do that—I’m going to print the facts as I know them and let the chips fall where they may. As his attorney, why would you let him do that?”

  “He insisted that the story of his brother’s faked suicide get out.”

  “Why? Because Rowan really shot Virginia Ferguson or because Rick doesn’t want to take the Starrett myth down all by himself?”

  Anna shrugged. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Tell me one thing—where was Rick Starrett when Virginia Ferguson was shot?”

  Anna Henrickssen lifted her chin. “My client is not guilty of shooting Virginia Ferguson. I will tell you that.”

  Chapter 29 Marcus

  It was Sunday afternoon and the three of us—Graham, PJ and I— circled our chairs around Addison’s newsroom computer as she pushed the button to bring the screen to life.

  “This story is going to be a bombshell, on a lot of different levels,” she said, turning to Graham. “How much time did you get with Charlie?”

  “About an hour this morning,” Graham answered. “She really spilled everything to me. She hasn’t got a lawyer yet, so after her hearing Monday we may have whoever is appointed to defend her coming to the newsroom to scream at us.”

  “Like I fucking care. I’m up to here with lawyers,” she said. Her tone was surprisingly harsh. Addison looked at my stepson. “Tell me you didn’t go with him.”

  “No ma’am,” PJ answered.

  “OK, PJ, what I need you to do is go through the computer photo files or the older photo files along the wall. I need you to find me any pictures of Rowan Starrett or his funeral,” she said. “I’ll also need a head shot of him in his hockey uniform. I can’t remember if photos were digitized back when Rowan supposedly died.”

  “I don’t think they were,” I answered. PJ jumped into action.

  Addison turned to Graham. “OK, tell me how Charlie found out she was being sought for Kay Henning’s shooting?”

  Graham flipped through his notes. “She said Deke disappeared at the end of October after a huge fight over this situation. She happened on your first story about Kay’s shooting while doing her daily Google search on Marcus.”

  “Why would she Google me every day? I can’t believe that!” I blurted out. “I still think this woman is a nutcase—and a stalker!”

  Addison held up her hand. “Hold on here. I don’t disagree. We just need to rule her out as a suspect. Has she got compelling evidence that she wasn’t here at the time of Kay’s shooting?”

  “She says she flew into Collitstown from Chicago and got in late Wednesday night. Rented a car at the airport,” Graham said.

  “Did she provide receipts? Tickets? Did she say where she was staying?”

  “No—nothing. It’s just her word.”

  Addison nodded. “The cops will verify that part of the story.”

  “Wait a minute!” I blurted out. “I got a call Wednesday morning at the hospital from a woman claiming to be my sister checking on Kay. When I talked to her, it didn’t sound right. I called my sister and she claimed she’d never called. Charlie couldn’t have known she was a suspect from that first story! She came to Kay’s hospital room at two on Thursday morning—fourteen hours after that call! Graham’s story naming a female suspect didn’t come out until noon, ten hours after that—that’s twenty-four hours total! She could have been here when Kay was shot!”

  “She’s still lying to us,” Graham said.

  “Like everyone else,” Addison said sharply.

  “So did she say if she came in contact with Deke once she got here?” I asked.

  Graham shook his head. “She did not. She said she has no idea where he is. I don’t’ know if that’s true or not.”

  “What’s the name of her book?” Addison went back to typing.

  “Death Among the Celts is her best known book,” I answered. “There have been two others, but that was the one she was promoting when we met.”

  “Get me some background information on her—her professional bio, information on her books,” Addison answered. “There’s going to be a lot of flack on this story, especially when we throw in a well-known author married to a once-dead hockey player. Have you talked any more to Birger about security at Kay’s hospital room?”

  “Just briefly. He said not to worry,” I answered.

  “But did he say one way or the other if security will be increased?”

  “No, especially when he knows that we’re going to do a story.”

  She nodded. “OK. Marcus, when did you notice Kay was gone?”

  I sighed and glanced at PJ, now digging for photos in the old files along the wall. “When I was writing, Kay would often go off on her own, go for a walk or something. She was out of the house Sunday night while I was working,” I began. “I got depressed at how far apart we’d grown, got drunk and passed out in bed. When I woke up on Monday, she still hadn’t come home and I found her note saying she’d gone to MIT to see PJ.”

  “So sometime during Kay’s Sunday night walk, she’s grabbed and drugged by somebody we now believe is Rowan Starrett, and, we believe, taken to the hotel where she was held,” Addison said and began typing. “What happened next?”

  “I called Dad that morning and left a message that Mom wasn’t on her flight,” PJ called from across the room. He’d heard me after all.

  “A message I didn’t get until later in the afternoon because I was running so behind on everything else,” I said, softly.

  “Didn’t you get a bunch of other phone calls that day, too?” Graham asked. “From someone Elizabeth thought was a man?”

  “ Yes. I thought they were from Charlie, so I ignored them. She’d been calling again periodically—”

  “As part of her need to apologize for her drunken behavior before rehab,” Graham interjected.

  “Yes,” I continued. “So the fact that she was calling was normal, but the number of calls were higher that Monday.”

  “Let’s fill in some of the other holes from the rest of the day,” Addison jumped into the conversation. “About three or three-thirty, Rick Starrett came into my office, claiming he’s going to get back at Virginia Ferguson for what he feels are unfair campaign ads that cost him the election.” Addison typed as she spoke. “What next?”

  It was so painful to catalogue the last week, but I’d watched Graham and Addison do this when they’d worked together on big crime stories. I had just never been the victim. Some of this PJ had never heard—most of it I never wanted him to know. I inhaled deeply.

  “I talked to Kay about four-thirty or five and the call was interrupted when she was shot,” I said softly.

  Addison nodded. “We contacted the police, next, they came and took a report.”

  “Then you did the original story and I went home to call the kids.”

  “And I went home, too, then got word that Virginia Ferguson was shot.” Addison stopped her frantic typing and searched through a stack of old newspapers strewn across the copy desk.

  “Here it is,” she said, finding an edition and smoothing the front page out beside her. “According to the police, Virginia Ferguson was shot about six-thirty that evening. What time did they find Kay?”

  “It was about seven thirty, eight o’clock when I got the phone call she was on her way to the hospital,” I said. “I don’t know the exact time they found her.”

  Addison nodded as she continue
d to type, then stopped and looked at Graham. “On Tuesday, you went to the hotel where Kay was found. Where was it?”

  Graham walked to his desk and pulled another notebook from a drawer and read the address aloud. “It was one of those old motels just off the highway going west toward Indiana, right on the western edge of the county. It took me about thirty minutes to get there. It’s called the Harmony Motel.”

  I knew the intersection he described: lonely farm fields that rotated through corn, soybeans and wheat, with the solitary little brick motel sitting just north of the highway off ramp.

  I’d gotten a glimpse of the motel on a weekend trip to Indianapolis once several years ago; we’d left the kids with my sister Calpurnia and were taking a romantic weekend away. The plans were to take in a play, a museum or two. We’d spent most of the weekend in bed, making love. On the way home, Kay was driving and I was staring out the window, wondering aloud what stories were held behind the haggard walls of the single story, brick building just inside the county line.

  “You’re always looking for stories, aren’t you?” Kay had placed her hand on my thigh and patted it affectionately.

  It seemed so long ago.

  I shuddered, imagining Kay as she lay bleeding in one of those rooms, just one short week ago.

  “So, Kay was grabbed Sunday night, probably taken to the Harmony, and kept there overnight,” Addison stared at the ceiling, trying to put all the pieces together. “Rick Starrett came into my office on Monday afternoon. Kay was shot at five-thirty or so at the motel thirty minutes away. Virginia Ferguson was shot at six-thirty. Just before she dies, Virginia identifies Rick as her shooter. Rick had plenty of time to shoot both women, then drive around until dark, when he hides himself in my barn.”

  “Rick had no reason to shoot Kay, though,” Graham said.

  “OK,” Addison continued. “What if Rick knew Rowan was holding Kay at the Harmony, that he was there when Marcus called her on the phone, and freaked out when Rowan shot her? Rick panics and drives around Plummer County or God knows where, trying to figure out what to do—he can’t tell anyone Rowan did it because no one knows he’s still alive. That would give Rowan—who’s livid at Virginia Ferguson for those nasty commercials during the campaign—plenty of time to come back to Jubilant Falls to shoot her. Rick could have returned to the Harmony, saw that police and emergency personnel there, panics again, and this time, drives around until he can hide in my barn, where he’s arrested.”

  “You think Rick Starrett knew Rowan was holding Kay?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Addison answered, still staring at the ceiling. “ I just know from the last time I talked to him he’s adamant he didn’t shoot Virginia Ferguson.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, though,” Graham said. “You said Rick hadn’t seen Rowan in years. He’d just stayed in contact with him via cell phone.”

  “When we talked at the jail, Rick’s attorney gave me a stack of cell phone bills with a phone number on it. Rowan could have called him from that phone number and told him about the shootings,” Addison said, thoughtfully.

  Clutching a stack of eight by ten photos, PJ returned to our circle.

  “OK, what about this?” PJ asked. “What if Rowan had my mom at the motel, shot her, drove into town to shoot Virginia Ferguson and then called Rick about it? He knew how to get in touch with him. Virginia Ferguson could have incorrectly identified Rowan as Rick.”

  “That doesn’t make sense either,” Graham interjected, pointing at the campaign headshot we’d run when he was arrested. “Look at Rick Starrett: he’s got his fifty dollar hair cut, his nice suits, regular dental care—Rowan, or Deke, or whatever his name is, looks like what he is: a felon with an addiction problem. I can’t imagine Virginia Ferguson mistaking those two as she lay dying in her doorway.”

  “What if he cleaned up?” PJ asked. “Maybe he was trying to impersonate his brother when he shot Virginia Ferguson. Maybe she knew Rowan was still alive and was going to expose it and Rowan couldn’t allow that to happen.”

  “No,” Addison said. “Rowan’s face is too beat up to be mistaken for Rick these days.”

  “But like it or not, Rowan had a serious grudge against you,” Graham pointed at me. “As well as Virginia Ferguson. He was getting back at you for Seattle by kidnapping and shooting your wife and at Virginia Ferguson for the campaign against his brother. You said Kay never saw her shooter.”

  I nodded.

  “But where does that put Charlie?” I asked. “The one thing we don’t know is where Charlie was for sure. The only thing I know is that she called me constantly the day Kay was shot. Nobody has told me whether it’s a cell phone, which could have placed her here, or if she was still in Chicago. She’s played a role in this somehow. I just know she has.”

  “So you think those phone calls were to warn you about Rowan or to tell you she’d shot your wife herself?” Graham asked me.

  I shrugged, frustrated. “I have no idea.”

  “We only have one thing that’s certain,” Addison said. “Nothing we have here clears any of these three of shooting either Virginia or Kay.”

  Chapter 30 Addison

  Two hours later, I pushed back from the computer screen. Graham leaned back into his chair as well.

  “Thank God this is finally done,” I said. “Look this over for me, check the details and then we can post this on the Web site. I need a cigarette.”

  “Posting this on the Web site on a Sunday night is going to bring every TV station in six counties here on Monday morning—maybe even the national news,” Graham said. “You don’t think they will beat us on anything?”

  “Nothing’s happening until there’s a judge’s order. Those orders could either approve the opening of the grave where Rowan isn’t buried or the release Charlie on stalking charges,” I said. “That’s not going to occur before their noon broadcast. Our Monday edition with this story all over page one will be out on the street by then.”

  I stood and stretched. While Graham was looking over our story, I needed to call Watt at home and give him a heads up on what we were doing. The information we’d learned from Charlie confirmed that Rowan was alive, making my jailhouse interview more relevant than before.

  I closed the door to my office and threw open the window behind my desk before lighting a cigarette. A deep drag brought the soothing nicotine into my lungs, followed by a fleeting sense of peace. I leaned sideways in my chair and turned my head to exhale, sending the smoke out the window, then leaned forward over my desk and dialed Watt’s home number.

  Quickly, I explained the situation again, adding the details of Rowan’s new identity as Deke Howe.

  Watt was silent through most of the conversation, grunting occasionally.

  “We can’t prove whether Rowan or Rick Starrett killed Virginia Ferguson or attempted to kill Kay Henning,” I finished. “But since this damned story involves so many staff members, we have no choice but to tell the whole story to exonerate ourselves.”

  He sighed. “OK. Send me a copy of the story before you post it on the Website, just so I know what’s going on.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Penny?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know I snapped at you the other day, but it’s work like this that makes me not want to sell the paper.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I hung up as Graham entered my office.

  “It’s ready if you want to look it over,” he said, waving at the blue cigarette smoke. “God, Addison. You need to give this shit up.”

  I flicked the cigarette out the window and started my office computer. “Sit at this desk for a few hours and then make that comment again.”

  Shaking his head, Graham closed the door. As the computer screen came to life, I began to read.

  By ADDISON MCINTYRE and GRAHAM KINNON

  Journal-Gazette Staff

  A former candidate for state senate held on murder charges claims his brother,
believed to have committed suicide 10 years ago is the one really guilty of the crime.

  That same brother may also be tied to the shooting of a J-G staff member’s wife.

  Rick Starrett was arrested early Tuesday morning for the murder of Virginia Ferguson who defeated him earlier this month in the race for the statehouse seat.

  In a jailhouse interview shortly after his arraignment, Starrett denied any involvement in the shooting, claiming his brother, disgraced NHL goalie Rowan Starrett, is alive and responsible for the murder.

  Rowan Starrett was banned from hockey for life in 1998. He was convicted of fraud in 1999 and served time in federal prison. He was released in 2002 and it was believed he committed suicide six months after his release.

  However, Rick Starrett claimed he aided in staging Rowan’s faked suicide and funeral, claiming he has sent money periodically to his brother. Interviews with Rick’s ex-wife, June Wynford-Starrett, confirmed that Rowan was still alive.

  Other interviews with Rick’s office assistant, Rosalee Levenger, confirm that he periodically left his state office to mail money to someone, possibly Rowan Starrett, although that has not been confirmed.

  Levenger said she believed the money was being sent to his ex-wife and, on at least one occasion, a staff member was tasked with mailing the money.

  Rowan, who had a long history of alcoholism and drug abuse, gambling and other crimes, needed the money to hide from people he owed money to, his brother said in a jailhouse interview.

  Ferguson’s campaign for Starrett’s seat in the General Assembly was fierce, punctuated with commercials that linked Rowan’s legal troubles with Rick, although Rick was never suspected in any of his brother’s illegal activities.

  Prior to the shooting, Rick Starrett came into the Journal-Gazette offices, stating he was going to file a complaint against Ferguson with the Ohio Elections Commission and told a staff member he would “hit her where it hurts.”