Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) Page 18

  Rick Starrett’s attorney, Anna Henrickssen, would not confirm his whereabouts at the time of the shooting, but provided J-G staff with cell phone and money order records to substantiate her client’s claims that Rowan was still alive.

  Investigation revealed those phone calls came from a neighborhood in Columbus and were made by pre-paid cell phones. Such phones are easily discarded and are often called “burner” phones by law enforcement.

  Starrett was arrested early Tuesday morning in a barn owned by Journal-Gazette editor Addison McIntyre.

  In a strange twist, the woman believed to be a stalking suspect in the shooting of Kay Henning, wife of J-G reporter Marcus Henning, married Rowan Starrett six years ago after meeting him at an alcohol rehabilitation facility.

  The woman, whose real name is Charlene Deifenbaugh and who writes under the pen name Charlotte De Laguerre, knew Rowan Starrett as Deke Howe.

  Deifenbaugh claimed she came to Jubilant Falls after learning through a computer search that Kay Henning had been shot.

  Deifenbaugh, author of Death Among the Celts and other mysteries, met Marcus Henning, author of Death on Deadline at a Seattle mystery conference while both were promoting their books.

  Police believe that Deifenbaugh was stalking Marcus Henning and were seeking her for questioning in Kay Henning’s shooting.

  Deifenbaugh claimed she came to Jubilant Falls late Sunday and contacted J-G reporter Graham Kinnon after a second story on the shooting, stating police were seeking a female suspect, was printed Thursday morning.

  J-G staff cannot verify Deifenbaugh’s exact whereabouts from Sunday night until Wednesday, when she claims she arrived.

  On Friday, she contacted the newspaper to speak to Graham Kinnon regarding his Thursday story. She was arrested at that time for violating a protection order filed by Marcus Henning on Saturday. She will be arraigned on those charges Monday.

  Rowan Starrett’s current whereabouts are also unknown. Police sources say they have plans to ask the courts that the grave, where Rowan Starrett was reportedly buried, be opened.

  With a few keystrokes, I copied the text, pasted it into e-mail to Watterson Whitelaw and hit the send button. I stepped to the open window behind my desk and, leaning on the old wooden sash, closed and locked it.

  I stared down in to the alley. How much longer would I have this office, after the paper was sold?

  Maybe, after twenty-some years of working in this building, it was time for a change, a permanent change. I deserved a job where I wasn’t working sixty hours a week, putting my family second and waiting constantly for the next disaster to land at my feet.

  Newspapering was a young person’s game and God knows I wasn’t getting any younger.

  I didn’t want to turn into those rheumy-eyed old burnouts I’d seen over the years, who hid in their offices, putting in their time until the much younger publisher handed them a bottle of Jack Daniels, a plaque commemorating their service, and sent them out the door. They’d known nothing but the news business, had no hobbies, and after wrecking their health and marriages as they ran screaming toward the next daily deadline, found retirement a goddamn bore. Freed from the daily adrenaline rush, their clogged hearts and failing livers couldn’t take the daily calm of a round of golf or daytime television. Most of them dropped dead within six months.

  I sighed. Maybe I wasn’t so different from them after all.

  Maybe this week I could get in touch with Fisher Webb and let him know I want that PR job. This next week isn’t going to be pretty. I may need to know where my next paycheck is coming from.

  Marcus could take over my job, I mused. He’d be great at running this place. I’ll tell Watterson when the time is right.

  A small electronic ding from the computer told me I had e-mail. I returned to my desk and opened the e-mail from Watterson.

  “Looks good,” it read. “Go with it.”

  A few more keystrokes and the Web page administration panel opened. A few more, and text filled the screen.

  I added a headline: Shootings Unveil Family Secrets, then added a subhead, Rick Starrett: Brother Rowan Isn’t Dead

  “OK,” I said to no one in particular. I hit a few more keys and the story screamed across the Journal-Gazette home page. “Here we go.”

  Chapter 31 Kay

  I was taking my first few tentative steps outside my hospital room Sunday afternoon when the elevator doors opened and Marcus and PJ stepped off.

  “There are my boys!” I said, shakily letting go of the nurse on my right and, on my left, the rail along the wall to embrace them.

  “Look at you!” Marcus hugged me gently around the shoulders and kissed my forehead as PJ stood back and smiled.

  “Look!” I twisted my extended arms side to side. “No more intravenous lines and I’m on solid food! Things are looking up!”

  “Once Mrs. Henning can walk to the end of the hall and back, we can talk to the doctor about sending her home,” the nurse at my side said. “We’re going to try this a couple of times a day.”

  My head began to spin and I reached out to clutch Marcus’s arm. “I think I’m done for the day,” I whispered. “Help me back to my room.”

  One of the police guards stepped up and took hold of my other elbow, helping me back into my hospital bed, smiling at my progress.

  “You’re going to do just fine, Mrs. Henning,” he said.

  “Things are really moving along, aren’t they?” I said, as I smoothed the blankets on my bed. “Yesterday the police caught Charlie. Even though I don’t think she was responsible for shooting me, she was stalking you, Marcus. From what Detective Birger told me, all the pieces fit together for that.”

  Marcus sat down on the edge of the bed and took my hand. “The thing is, honey,” he began, “from what we all pieced together at the paper this afternoon, we think there are three suspects that could have done this.”

  “Well, let’s just let the police do their jobs, then,” I said, squeezing his hand. “It just seems like we’ve been through so much lately. I want to celebrate getting better. I want to talk about something else.”

  Marcus smiled sadly and nodded as PJ flopped into one of the visitors’ chairs.

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask you, PJ, how’s the internship going?” I asked.

  Before he could answer, Lillian poked her head around the police guards.

  “Hello!” she cried, pulling Bronson into the room by the hand. “Hey, everybody’s here!”

  She stopped short in the middle of the room. “I have some big news!”

  Bronson was red-faced and sheepish. I glanced at Marcus, who winked at me and smiled slightly. I sucked in my breath. Could it be?

  Lillian pulled her left hand from her pocket. Gleaming light from a one-carat diamond solitaire on her ring finger bounced around the room. “Look, everybody! We’re getting married!” she squealed.

  Tears filled my eyes as my daughter stepped forward to hug first me, then Marcus.

  “Oh baby, I’m so happy for you!” I said, wiping my eyes. “When did he ask you?”

  “Bronson told me last night he was going to ask her this afternoon while PJ and I were at the paper,” Marcus said.

  “You knew about this?” Lillian playfully smacked her stepfather on the shoulder.

  “Since your mother came out of surgery,” Marcus answered.

  Bronson’s embarrassment subsided. “I was going to ask Lillian Christmas Eve, when we went to Paris with my folks, but after you were—um, after all this happened—I thought that there was a possibility she might not want to go to Paris. I didn’t want to ask her while you were in intensive care.”

  “Yeah, that might have been considered bad form, dude,” PJ interjected. “’Hey, I know your mom’s close to death, but you want to get married?’”

  We all laughed.

  Bronson continued, smiling. “But after it looked like you were going to get better, I asked Mr. Henning again. He said we’d have the h
ouse to ourselves this afternoon, so after you all left for the newspaper, I took her out for a drive and asked her.”

  “Awww,” I said and wiped my eyes again. “So, what are the plans? Have you set a date? After graduation, I hope? You’re too close to getting your degree, my dear, to quit now.”

  “I know Mom,” she said. “I will finish my degree—don’t worry about that. We really haven’t set a date.” She wrapped her arm around Bronson’s arm and leaned against his shoulder.

  Our conversation slipped into the mundane: Possible dates for an engagement shower, when Barnard graduation was slated, whether they should get married in New York City or here, the best bridal magazines to read.

  These were the things our family should be talking about, I thought as they chattered around me. These celebrations marked each of our lives, the engagements, the graduations, the marriages, common events in the cycle of life; these were the things that I was even more grateful to be part of now.

  Even PJ, never one of Bronson’s biggest fans for some reason, seemed to accept the engagement and was talking about being a part of the wedding. Lillian howled as her little brother suggested the groomsmen wear black Converse tennis shoes.

  For the first time in a long time, it was wonderful that we weren’t worrying about life and death matters. I was going to make it through this. Marcus and I were strong, once again. I didn’t like that he’d lied to me, but I had to remember my marriage to Paul was behind me and reacting to Marcus the way I reacted to Paul wasn’t fair. I was beginning to trust again.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, just enjoying the chatter around me, momentarily even entertaining the vision of future grandchildren playing in the yard.

  “So, are you still going to Paris?” I asked as the conversation lagged.

  “Well, I wasn’t sure,” Lillian began, glancing at Bronson. “I hadn’t said anything yet—”

  “No, no, no,” I said, waving my hands. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime. You two go.”

  “You sure?” Lillian asked. “I don’t want to leave if you aren’t doing well. We’d originally planned to spend Thanksgiving here, anyway.”

  “I’m going to be fine,” I reassured her. “You don’t worry about me any more.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Head back to New York, spend Thanksgiving with Bronson’s parents and then enjoy Paris. You’ll have a marvelous time.”

  “Oh, Mother, thank you!” Lillian hugged me.

  The conversation continued, lively and brisk. Marcus pulled out his cell phone and called Andrew to celebrate the news of Lillian’s engagement, passing the phone around so he could speak to all of us. A Bengals game played on the television suspended on the wall and we cheered with each gain and groaned with each error until the nurses came by to shush us. At some point, PJ left to get everyone, including my police guards, some Chinese take out. While I ate my bland hospital food, I inhaled the sweet spicy smell of General Tso’s chicken, rice and greasy fried egg rolls.

  At seven-thirty, PJ rounded up everyone’s Styrofoam cups and boxes.

  “It’s almost time for visiting hours to be over,” he said. “We need to go. Lil, can you and my future brother-in-law take me home?”

  “I suppose,” she said. I hugged all three of them goodbye.

  “Give me a minute or two,” Marcus said to the kids. “Let me say goodnight to your mom and I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  He walked them to the elevator, then returned to my room and sat on the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, he took off his shoes and slid into the bed, drawing me into his arms. I snuggled against him, wrapping an arm around his waist and burying my face in his shirt.

  “I love you, Kay,” he whispered into the top of my head.

  “Mmmmm. I love you too,” I answered.

  It was a big day. My efforts at walking, plus Lillian and Bronson’s news, had worn me out. Within a few minutes, feeling safe in Marcus’s arms, I fell asleep.

  Chapter 32 Addison

  It was Monday morning, just after deadline. I’d walked to Aunt Bea’s, the diner around the corner, to grab a cup of black coffee, smoke an entire cigarette—maybe two—and to clear my head. I’d almost made it back to the front door of the Journal-Gazette when I heard him.

  “Addison! Addison! Wait! I need to talk to you!”

  The presses were already rolling. The circulation department had increased the press run by an additional 5,000 copies and the advertising department was salivating at the number of unique visits to our Web site thanks to the Starrett story. Whitelaw had already called the newspaper’s attorneys to alert them as to any potential legal ramifications. They assured him we were on solid ground legally.

  It was going to be a wild week. At least I had more bodies in the newsroom. Marcus was still burning his accumulated vacation time, but I had PJ upstairs in the newsroom typing in briefs for me. At least Pat Robinette, our photographer, was back from furlough and Graham and Elizabeth were slated to be here all week.

  The morning TV news led with our story, but didn’t have anything more than what we’d splashed across our front page. A few were able to dig up the footage of the Stanley Cup victory and a few B-roll shots of Rowan being led off to some unnamed jail, but most of the segments were talking heads leading with “A local newspaper is reporting…”

  Fortunately, jail visiting hours weren’t until this afternoon, so none of them could talk to either Charlie or Rick, although a couple Cincinnati stations set up their remote trucks across the street from there to get a good wide shot.

  I turned around. It was Mike Flagg, a fixture at one of the Collitstown news stations, known for his over the top, melodramatic delivery on his news stories. He was running, microphone in hand, followed by his cameraman, carrying a Sony on his shoulder.

  I stopped.

  “What do you want, Flagg?”

  “Just want to ask you a couple questions about the Rick Starrett story.”

  I knew this was coming. I’d primed Marcus and Graham to be ready for interviews on the story, too, but now I had to take a little bit of my own advice. Be patient. Be kind. I gave myself another piece of advice: These are the assholes you’ll have to deal with on a daily basis if you take that PR job. Might as well get a little practice.

  “OK. Shoot.”

  Flagg waited a few moments while the cameraman got set up. The cameraman had me spell my name, say my job title and asked me to stand in front of the brass name plaque near the newspaper’s front door. When the cameraman was ready, he nodded in the anchorman’s direction. Flagg grimaced as he adjusted his tie, tilted his microphone towards himself and spoke:

  “How did Rick Starrett, the suspect in Virginia Ferguson’s murder, end up in your barn?”

  “That’s a good question, Mike,” I said, trying on a professional-sounding voice, and holding my cigarette down at my side, out of the camera shot. “I had been working late the night before. It was dark when I got home and I didn’t notice any tire tracks. My husband Duncan is a dairy farmer and, that morning, Tuesday, we were headed out to the barn for the morning milking about five in the morning when we discovered the tire tracks leading to our equipment barn. I opened the door and found Mr. Starrett there.”

  “Your husband Duncan had no part in hiding Mr. Starrett there?”

  “Uh, no. He’s up by four-thirty to milk cows. That means he’s in bed by nine-thirty or ten o’clock at the latest.”

  “You have a long history with Rick Starrett,” Flagg began.

  “Yes. We went to high school together. As the editor of the Journal-Gazette, I also worked with Mr. Starrett during his terms as city manager and county commissioner.”

  “Would you characterize your relationship as friendly?”

  I glanced back to see the J-G advertising staff clustering around the window to watch the interview. Great.

  “Friendly, yes, but it was more professional than anything else.”

  “Rick Starre
tt also told you the story of his involvement in faking his brother Rowan’s suicide.”

  “Yes. Mr. Starrett’s attorney told me he wanted to talk to me following his arraignment.”

  “Did you know Rowan Starrett?”

  “Again, we went to high school together—he was two grades behind me, so I knew Rick better than Rowan. I’m also not a sports writer, so I didn’t cover any of his games. The Journal-Gazette frequently ran the Associated Press stories on him due to the local connection, however.”

  Flagg slipped his hand inside his sports jacket and pulled out a newspaper.

  “Our staff did a little research and we found that you also wrote the story about Rowan Starrett’s death,” he said, showing the ten-year-old cover story of Rowan’s funeral to the camera. “Isn’t it a little strange?”

  My jaw tensed and I wished I could take a draw on my cigarette.

  “Knowing that newspapers like ours have small staffs, I was probably the only person available to do the story that day.”

  “Some of our viewers are wondering if you were in on the cover-up. Can you address those rumors?”

  Some of your viewers are fucking morons.

  “Learning that Rowan Starrett was still alive was a shock to me, I can assure you,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Has Prosecutor Steve Adolphus contacted you regarding your jailhouse interview with Rick Starrett? Is he concerned about any interference by the Journal-Gazette into the police investigation?”

  “He did originally, but we here at the newspaper have always cooperated fully with law enforcement in Plummer County and will continue to do so. Our role as a newspaper, like yours in television news, is to provide a voice for those in our community and serve as a record for the events of our county. We believe this constitutes one of those events.” Damn. Maybe Fisher Webb was right. Maybe I could do PR.

  “He has never spoken to you about filing obstruction of justice charges?”

  “No.”