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

  Graham had done a lot for the paper since he’d been here. He’d put us on the map in terms of investigative work. The number of Associated Press awards proved it. He’d been the point person for national TV interviews when a highway sniper decided to use Plummer County drivers for target practice. He’d gone undercover to expose filthy conditions in local egg farms.

  With his tall, thin physique and big flat feet stuffed into worn wingtips, Graham reminded me more of a young Jimmy Stewart, filled with the young reporter’s belief that he really was doing good and really could change the world. His daily uniform was khaki pants, thin suspenders and a white shirt—if the situation called for it, he could add his one of two faded, frayed ties and a jacket with suede elbow pads that had seen better days.

  As far as I knew, he lived alone. He never spoke of a spouse or a girlfriend—or even the occasional date—in the newsroom. Dedicated to getting the story, I often had to remind him not to work off the clock and to go home at the end of his shift.

  I’d learned of his undercover work searching for the highway sniper just before the story broke and his life was in danger.

  His personnel file was filled with reprimands from Watterson Whitelaw—followed by AP awards commending him on the chances he took to get the story that resulted in the reprimand.

  Most of Graham’s awards hung beside his desk in the newsroom. The only thing missing was his Ohio Associated Press First Amendment Award. The publisher wanted it hanging in the front office downstairs, but I’d let Graham keep it at home.

  Like me, he had all the possibilities of turning into a Class A workaholic.

  Somehow, I imagined Graham Kinnon living the life of an ascetic, in a sparsely furnished efficiency apartment. If he’d been raised a Catholic, he would have made one hell of a Jesuit. He could have been raised Catholic—I didn’t know. Nobody did. At any rate, I was sure by the third day of his furlough, he’d worn a circle in the living room rug out of sheer boredom.

  I was right: he picked up on the first ring.

  “Kinnon,” he said.

  “It’s me, Addison. I need you to come back into work. I’m cancelling—or at least postponing—your furlough.” Quickly I filled him in on the situation with Kay Henning. “Call the assistant chief, Gary McGinnis, and let him know you’re covering the story now at my direction. He’ll keep you informed about what’s going on. Got a pencil? Need his cell phone number?”

  “Already have it—and his home number. Will do.” A few more basics on the situation and we hung up. No chatter, no small talk. That was Graham. I could count on the story getting done and getting done right.

  Time to go. I pulled my large shapeless purse out of my bottom desk drawer and gazed across the empty newsroom before I walked out.

  Right now, it was those few hours of quiet between the end of the day shift and the evening when the sports staff—reduced to one full-time and a part-time writer—would come in write their stories. They would mock up their two pages afterwards, finishing nearly at one in the morning, and, if needed, I would finish them in the morning, adding early-morning copy from the sports wire or short news briefs to fill in the spaces.

  I loved this job. I’d been here for more than twenty years, starting as a reporter, covering everything from high school graduations to ribbon cuttings but never more in my element than when I was on a crime scene, something I probably got from my father Walter Addison, retired commander of the local Ohio State Patrol post.

  Very few people know my first name isn’t Addison—it’s Penny. Only those who know my past called me by that name: my husband, my father, my best friend Suzanne, every cop and sheriff’s deputy in this county—those who’d known me forever.

  I gazed at the blue computer screens on the empty desks, wondering if I could leave it behind for a PR job.

  There was no doubt newspapers as I knew them were dying. Advertising, which drove page count, had all but tanked following the October 2008 crash and the growth of the Internet. Newspapers that had regularly been thirty pages a day six days a week dropped first to twenty, then sixteen, and now we thanked God for the days when advertising brought in enough for a twelve-page press run.

  There was even talk of cancelling the Monday paper, which usually had the least amount of advertising.

  The furloughs, ironically, made it harder to sell ads and shot single copy sales in the ass. When we weren’t generating local stories, we were forced to run wire stories, and folks wouldn’t buy newspapers when there weren’t any local stories on the front page. If circulation dropped, advertisers didn’t want to buy ads if no one was going to see them.

  It was a vicious cycle.

  But could I leave it behind? I flipped the overhead light off. Depending on what Fisher Webb had to tell me tonight, maybe I’d know.

  ****

  Webb’s big shiny, red Cadillac was parked next to Duncan’s battered F-150 farm truck as I pulled up the long drive to the farmhouse. Some long-ago McIntyre decided that there was more sense in farming the land between the road and the white frame farmhouse set back off the road. Every night as I turned off County Road 122, I had a minute of watching crops growing or the Holsteins grazing— a full 60-second decompression session—before my Taurus found its way up the gravel drive to the kitchen door.

  Duncan had a pot of coffee already made and was pouring Fisher a cup at the kitchen table as I came in the door.

  I dumped my purse and keys on the counter, took a cup of coffee from Dunk and slid into a chair at the kitchen table across from Fisher.

  “Another late night?” he asked.

  I took a sip of coffee and shot a look at Duncan. “There have been later nights. This isn’t too bad,” I said, smiling. You have no idea, I thought to myself. The night is young, and a reporter’s wife is missing.

  Fisher was silent for a moment as he turned his coffee mug between his hands.

  “I don’t believe in beating around the bush, Addison,” he said. “I’ll just lay it out on the table and let you and Duncan talk it over. Like I told you last week, I need a public relations manager at the hospital. I can pay you a helluva lot better, increase your insurance benefits for less than what you’re paying now and just about guarantee you hours that will allow you to have a life of your own. Family members who want to study healthcare in college could get tuition reimbursed.”

  “What will my responsibilities be?”

  “You’ll be responsible for generating content for the monthly newsletter that goes out to all the county residents and local businesses, providing press releases as needed to the local media—both the J-G and the local TV stations— and writing speeches for me. In the event of a large media event, you’ll serve as spokesman and media coordinator for the hospital.”

  I nodded. “OK. And you understand that what you get when you get me is someone who doesn’t play the corporate game very well. I smoke. I swear—and I don’t tolerate assholes very well.”

  Fisher laughed. It was the easy, polished laugh of a man who spends a lot of time at public events, shaking hands and schmoozing. “You sell yourself short. You have a lot more poise and professionalism than you think. I’ve been on the other side of your questions and I’ve been impressed.”

  Duncan looked at me and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “See?”

  “And I know that ‘large media events’ don’t necessarily mean a mass casualty drill,” I said.

  “No. We have three fund-raising events each year for the hospital: the annual Holiday Ball the first weekend in December, the Founder’s Day dinner in the spring and the Valentine’s Day event for the cancer wing.”

  “If I took this job—and I’m not saying I will—I’d like to see some fund raising for the mental health wing.”

  In high school, our daughter Isabella was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after slitting her wrists. Stable now with the help of Lithium, her disease was likely a cruel sentence from the law of genetics. My mother June screwed her way throu
gh the Ohio State Highway Patrol post roster and shopped her way through every store in town before my father, an OSP trooper, threw her out and I lost contact with her forever. The hospital psychiatrists had saved Isabella’s life—and diagnosed the genetic component of my daughter’s misery.

  “If it wasn’t for the hospital, I don’t think we’d have our little girl today,” Duncan said softly.

  “We can do that,” Fisher said.

  My cell phone began to buzz in my purse.

  “Excuse me.” I dug through my purse till I found it and touched the screen to answer. “Hello?”

  “Penny?” It was Gary McGinnis, one of the few people in Jubilant Falls who knew me well enough to call me by my birth name.

  “What’s up Gary? You find Kay Henning?”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “No. It’s Virginia Ferguson. She’s been shot.”

  “What?”

  “And before she went into surgery she said Rick Starrett was the one who pulled the trigger.”

  “Shit.” I looked over at Fisher, who was staring intently at me over his coffee mug. “He came into my office today. Said he was going to get back at her somehow for the ugly campaign.”

  Gary grunted. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Is he in custody?”

  “No. He’s not at his apartment in Columbus, he’s not at his ex-wife’s house—nobody knows where he went. He’s disappeared. Can you meet me at the PD and give me the details of your conversation today? It’s not looking good for our soon-to-be ex-golden boy.”

  “Sure. See you in about half an hour.” I touched the phone screen again and disconnected. “I’m sorry, guys. I gotta go—big story.”

  “That’s OK.” Fisher stood and placed his coffee cup on the kitchen counter. “Before I go, I want you to look at something.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is my offer. I know it’s more than you make now. Think about it and get back to me.”

  He shook my hand, then Duncan’s and left.

  I opened the folded piece of paper and gasped. I handed it to Duncan. He looked at the paper and then at me. I could see in his face that Fisher’s offer would solve a lot of our financial problems: Isabella’s college tuition could be paid without loans. We could replace our rickety milking equipment, buy a new tractor or even a new truck, not to mention put money in the savings account.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a politician who took a bullet, the one who could have done it is missing and no one to cover the story. Right now, I gotta go.”

  Chapter 6 Kay

  Oh God, I hurt. God, I hurt.

  Cold wind hit my face as the sirens stopped and the doors of the ambulance opened. Warm blood crept across my right side, pain shooting through me as the wheels of the gurney hit the pavement. Though I was lying still, I felt like I was flying. There was the sound of sliding doors opening, more wheels turning.

  Voices gave sharp commands—

  “White female, gunshot wound, right quadrant. Facial injuries consistent with assault.”

  Someone—a man—leaned over me.

  “You’re at the hospital now. We’re going to take good care of you.”

  Other people, men and women, gathered around me.

  “OK, one, two, three—” I felt myself lifted and placed on something, a bed. There were bright lights. God, I hurt. Somebody please—tell Marcus where I am.

  “Mrs. Henning, can you hear me? Mrs. Henning?” Somebody squeezed my hand.

  I must have said something. The voice kept talking.

  “You’re going to be OK. You’re not going to die, but we need to get you into surgery. Hang in there for me, OK?”

  I felt a needle slide into my arm and then peace.

  Chapter 7 Marcus

  My fictional hero, ace reporter Rhys Chapman, was equal parts Bob Woodward, Don Juan and Sam Spade. Tall and red-headed, Chapman was sharp—he asked all the right questions, and knew instinctively where to dig when a story was thrown in his lap.

  He was the darling of his fictional newsroom. Dressed always in the best suits, he was a crack shot, drank only the best scotch, lived in a big city loft furnished in modern style and made all the ladies swoon. No one knew about his secret romance with a blonde police dispatcher known only as Badge Number 3260 on the radio and 'the Doll' to other cops.

  He said her name only in dark, soft moments when she was off duty and he was off deadline.

  There were moments when Rhys needed the Doll, like I needed Kay, times when, better man that he was, he could reach out and say what he needed. Not at all like I'd handled my marriage.

  In short, the hero of Death on Deadline was everything I wasn't.

  Now, it was Monday evening and I was wading through Kay's dirty laundry basket in the corner of our walk-in closet, trying to find something the cop standing behind me could take to aid a dog in searching for her. I settled on a cotton tee shirt with coffee stains on the front, dropping it into the brown paper bag he held.

  She put it on Saturday morning, before she went to the grocery. I’d come around the corner, coffee cup in hand, and half awake from a late night writing binge—I would later delete it all. I’d run right into Kay.

  She’d been upset, but never yelled. The gap between us was too cold and deep.

  “I’m sorry!” I called after her. “Kay—honey? I said I’m sorry.”

  There’d been no answer, except the sound of the garage door slamming.

  Wherever Kay was, I only hoped the cops could make contact with her. Her Blackberry was still active, they said. They’d “ping” her phone number off the closest cell towers to find her, use the search dogs and bring her home. Until that happened, cruisers were scouring the city and sheriff’s deputies were prowling the county’s back roads, looking for my old battered van she’d left in.

  Just please bring her back, I prayed to no one in particular. Maybe then I could begin to make everything up to her. Provided she was still alive.

  The memory of her scream echoed in my head.

  "We'll be in touch," the cop said.

  I nodded.

  "We’re doing everything we can, sir."

  "I know."

  The cop closed the front door behind him and I leaned against the wall, sighing heavily.

  My cell phone rang again. It was PJ.

  “I'm on the next flight home, Dad. Can you pick me up at the airport?"

  “Sure, son."

  "Lillian said she's going to be on the flight from New York that lands about a half hour after mine."

  “OK. I'll be there."

  "Dad?"

  "Yes?"

  "I quit school.”

  *****

  “You know we always called you guys “Ron and Nancy” behind your backs, don’t you?” PJ said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked

  Two hours later, the four of us—me, PJ, Lillian and Bronson—huddled around the kitchen island, clutching coffee mugs. Andrew had called—he would be coming into the base on a military flight the next morning. His commander had given him compassionate leave.

  The conversation had stalled as I unburdened myself about Kay's unhappiness and my neglect that led to this. It was awkward talking to my children as fellow adults, hearing adult marital problems.

  Lillian's eyes were red from crying, but she smiled.

  “You know, Daddy—after the Reagan’s. We knew that we were loved as kids, but we also knew that when you two were together, we were outside that orbit.”

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t think.” I stammered. I opened the door to a more grown-up conversation and this was the consequence.

  Lillian laughed. “When you only had eyes for each other, even as kids we could hear the sizzle.”

  “You think we didn’t read your book?” PJ grinned sheepishly.

  I felt my face redden to the roots of my thinning hair as I thought of Death on Deadline’s ste
amier sex scenes.

  Her Aryan-blonde boyfriend Bronson, the only one without coffee, stood mutely hanging his head, his hand on her shoulder, but even he had to smile.

  The conversation stalled again. There was nothing else to say, nothing else left to explain.

  PJ stared into his mug.

  “I’m sorry, kids, ” I said.

  "Daddy, you know it's not your fault," Lillian said after a moment. "She never told you she was going to MIT."

  This time, I hung my head.

  "I should have known," I said. "We should have been able to talk about it."

  PJ lifted his head. "No. I told her not to say anything to you."

  “Why not?" It was an indignant chorus and he shrank back into his hooded sweatshirt.

  "It was supposed to be just a day trip," he said. "We were going to have lunch, talk it over, and I was going to have a decision for her when she got off the plane back here. She was going to tell you only if I decided to quit school."

  "Which it sounds like you've decided to do," I said.

  PJ nodded.

  "You want to tell us why you're giving up a full ride to MIT to come back to this God-forsaken hole of a town?" Lillian demanded. "You're giving up the chance to go to college to come back to Jubilant Falls?"

  She threw her hands in the air like the New Yorker she wanted to be.

  "Lil, we all know you don't like it here, but—” PJ began.

  "How could anyone like it here? There are no jobs, there's no culture, no elegance, no—” Her voice escalated with each word.

  "Lillian—” Bronson whispered.

  "No, I won't! I've always hated this town! And now somebody here has kidnapped my mother and probably killed her—”

  "Don't you say that! You don't know that!" PJ jumped from his seat, knocking it backward onto the floor, moving threateningly toward his half-sister.

  "Stop it, you two." I stepped between them. "Until we find out exactly what happened to your mother, we will not speculate and we will not turn on each other."

  "I'm sorry," Lillian began to cry again. "I'm just so scared."