Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) (15 page)

              Whitelaw’s door must have been open. I could hear voices from down the hallway that led to his office as I bounded up the front stairs to the newsroom, but didn’t think much about it.

              Weekend traffic in and out of the
Journal-Gazette
wasn’t all that uncommon. The quiet phones made it easy for department heads—Whitelaw, Addison, the advertising manager, the bookkeeper and the circulation manager—to come in on weekends and get caught up. It was more common for the editorial staff, though. The sports staff would come in after a game; Graham Kinnon and Addison were known to come in for breaking stories and get them up on the Web site. More than likely, there had been some breaking news this morning and Graham simply took PJ along for the ride.

              That would be a good experience for PJ, I thought. Too bad he looked semi-homeless in that ratty running gear he had on this morning.

              Turning a corner, I came into the newsroom and stopped dead in my tracks.

              It was Charlie, seated beside Graham’s desk as he looked at her intently, breaking his gaze only to write down her words. She was dressed in a bulky fuchsia sweater, with black skinny-legged jeans and brown leather boots that came above her knees. PJ, his arms crossed, leaned against the cabinets that filled the wall behind Kinnon’s desk and stared at the woman who shot his mother. He wasn’t dressed in the crappy running gear he’d left the house in, but in a sweater and khaki pants.

              She looked up and jumped up from her seat, a smile breaking across her angular face. “Marcus! My darling! This is all such a horrible misunderstanding! We have got to get this worked out!” she cried in her dark tobacco-stained voice.

              “Don’t play innocent with me, Charlie,” I said. “Stop right there—don’t come any closer. You want Graham to think this is all one big misunderstanding, that you’re some poor, put-upon victim. I know better Charlie.
I know better
.”

              “But Marcus, honey—” She ran toward me, her arms outstretched.

              I’d never struck a woman before, but within two steps my hands reached her throat. All the rage of the last year bubbled through me—I slammed her against the filing cabinets. She cried out as she struck them, sliding to the floor. She grabbed the back of her head and curled into a ball crying.

              I stood over her enraged. "What the hell are you doing here? Why the hell did you shoot my wife? Why did you shoot Kay? Why don’t you just leave me alone, Charlie? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

              “Dad! Stop it!” PJ cried. “She says she didn't do it and I believe her."

Chapter 26 Addison

            
 
By the time I’d arrived, the police had already been to the newsroom and left with the woman who’d been stalking Marcus and supposedly shot his wife.

              Watterson grabbed my arm as I came up the stairs. I could see Detective Mike Birger had Graham, PJ and Marcus cornered in the newsroom. Marcus was rubbing his chin, like he’d either been struck or forgotten to shave—I couldn’t tell. PJ stared at his feet. Two strangers—a man and a woman in corporate suits—stood behind Watterson, their eyes round as saucers.

              “Would you tell me what the hell is going on here?” he hissed. His face was purple.

              I took a deep breath. “Remember the story on Marcus’s wife getting kidnapped and shot? Followed by the story on the suspect, a woman that Marcus met on his book tour?”

              “Yes?”

              “From what I could gather on the phone with Marcus, she showed up here and wanted to talk to Graham, who’s been covering the story.” I didn’t tell him that Graham heard from this Charlene Deifenbaugh—pen name Charlotte De Laguerre—the day his story came out and invited her to come tell her side of the story when the newsroom was empty. Unfortunately, Marcus happened to walk in on them.

              “And when were you going to tell me about this situation?”

              I sighed. “Last week, but I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

              “We
all
have a lot on our minds, Addison, but staff safety should always be at the top of the list. And what took you so long to get here? I called you nearly an hour ago!”

              “I was in Columbus. Having breakfast with my father.”

              Watterson knew me well enough to see I was lying. He shot me a sharp sideways glance. “This better not have anything to do with Rick Starrett and his damned undead brother,” he said.

              The corporate types looked at both of us as though we were off our medications.              

              “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.