Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) (10 page)

Chapter 16 Marcus

              After my breakfast of coffee, eggs—and a side order of guilt—I left the hospital cafeteria and went back up to the ICU to find all three kids outside the unit.

              “What’s going on?” I asked. “Is Mom OK?”

              “That detective is in talking to Mom. He wanted us to wait out here,” PJ said.

              For a few minutes we made small talk—which kid slept where in the house last night, what they had for breakfast, why we didn’t keep a favorite childhood cereal on hand anymore. In a few moments, we ran out of things to say and silence settled around us. Andrew leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling as Lillian snuggled under Bronson’s arm. PJ folded himself into the corner of the hallway couch and pulled out his iPhone, his thumbs working furiously on the touchpad, probably playing a game.

              In a few minutes, Detective Birger came out of the unit.

              “You guys can go in and visit her now,” he said, smiling at the kids. “I think she’s going to be OK. You”—he pointed at me—”We need to talk.”

              The kids quietly walked into the ICU unit and Birger and I sat on the couch.

              “I have something I need to tell you,” I said, and briefly explained the entire situation with Charlie Deifenbaugh—or Charlotte De La Guerre or whatever the hell her real name was. At this point, I didn’t know what to believe.

              “Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?” Birger asked as he scribbled notes on a small legal pad held in a leather binder. “If we’d known you had a stalker, you could have had protection. We might have been able to prevent this.”

              I sighed. “I know that now. I wasn’t entirely sure those voicemails on my work phone yesterday could have been her until I thought about it,” I said. “I hadn’t heard from Charlie for a couple months.”

              “When was that?”

              “Maybe late August, early September. She’d called at work and left some message about being in Muncie, Indiana, at a writer’s conference at Ball State in October. She wanted to know if I’d signed up for the conference and if we could meet.”

              “Did you call her back?”

              “No. I deleted it.”

              “Could that have made her angry?”

              I shrugged. “I don’t know. You would think that when somebody doesn’t return any of your four thousand messages, you’d get the hint they don’t want to talk to you and you stop calling.”

              “Unless you’re a stalker, in which case you ramp up your efforts. You say there had been no further phone calls until Monday morning when you discovered your wife had left?”

              “No, sir.”

              Birger nodded and wrote some more.

              “We found several messages from a 773 area code on your phone, plus several from the hotel where we found Mrs. Henning, and one from your son PJ’s cell phone. Elizabeth Day also said she took ten messages from what she believed to be the same person that morning,” he said.

“              Yes—she told me that. The area code, 773, that’s Chicago. Charlie lives in Chicago. It’s got to be her.”

              He nodded and we stood. Birger snapped his binder closed, a signal the interview was finished.

              “I’m headed back to the office now,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch. Does your wife know any of this about this woman?”

              “No. I haven’t told her. Not yet.”

              “You’d better—and soon. This Charlie might come back to finish the job. I’ll talk to the chief about maybe getting some uniforms out here to the hospital.”

              Birger headed to the elevator and I wandered back into the ICU unit. Through the glass windows that separated each patient bay, I could see the kids surrounding their mother’s bed. Bronson saw me enter the unit and motioned that he, too, wanted to speak to me outside the ICU in the hall.

              “Mr. Henning, do you have a moment?” he asked, swallowing hard. “I know this probably isn’t the best place to do this, but can we talk?”

              I looked up at Bronson, a full six inches taller than me. The collar of his gray Columbia University sweatshirt poked out from around his navy pea coat. A Burberry scarf was stuffed in a pocket and the blue canvas belt that held up his designer jeans had preppy, yacht-club anchors woven into it. His white-blonde hair was styled enough so as to appear disheveled, and there was apprehension in his blue eyes.

              “Sure, kid.” We walked back out into the hallway. If I were taller, I could have put a fatherly arm around his shoulder. “What’s up?”

              He took a deep breath. “Well you know Lillian and I have been dating for over a year now, and…” He took another deep breath. “Before all this happened, I was going to ask her to marry me when we were in Paris on Christmas Day—my parents have a small apartment there. We were going to come back with the news.”

              I nodded. “Go on.”

              “Well, she’s obviously not going to want to go to Paris now, until Mrs. Henning is better.”

              “Sure.”

              “I still want to ask her to marry me, sir. I want you to know that I love Lillian with all my heart and I’ll be a good provider—I’m going to work in my father’s firm as a stockbroker after the first of the year while I finish up my MBA. She’ll never want for anything.”

              There was a pleading look in Bronson’s eyes. The trust-fund baby I saw only as Lillian’s way out of Jubilant Falls actually did love her. I realized he would do anything to make her happy. Much like I felt when Kay and I and the children stood in that small church and became a family all those years ago.

              I sighed. Where had I gone wrong? By keeping secrets, by lying to Kay—even if I thought I was protecting her. Could we bring back this same hope I saw in Bronson’s eyes?

              “I have no doubt about that,” I said. “Sure Bronson—I’d be proud to have you as a son-in-law. You have our permission to ask for our daughter’s hand.”

              My future son-in-law’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he shook my hand vigorously. “Thank you, sir! Thank you!”

              “So when are you going to ask her?” I asked.

              “I don’t know. Not until Mrs. Henning comes out of the hospital, at least.”

              I started to speak, but stopped as I saw the ICU door open. It was Lillian coming from her mother’s bedside, followed closely by her brothers.

              “Hey, Daddy, what are you guys talking about?” she asked.

              I looked at Bronson and tried not to smile.

              “Nothing. Guy stuff,” he said.

              She shrugged and rolled her eyes at him, then looked at me. I could see her sliding back into what her mother and I called her “Marian mode.”

              Yup, Bronson was going to have his hands full with
that
one, I thought to myself.

“Mom is pretty doped up, and her doctor is coming by soon, so we were talking about going home for a little bit,” Andrew said. “You ought to too, Dad. You, more than us, need the sleep.”

              “I’ll stay for a little longer, then I’ll meet you guys at home.”

              We said our goodbyes and I stepped back into ICU. Kay’s eyes fluttered when I touched her arm, and she mumbled something unintelligible. I leaned over and kissed her forehead.

              “I love you, Kay. More than you know,” I whispered. “This is my fault. This is all my fault…”

              Birger was right. I had to tell her the truth of what was going on, that we were being stalked and for whatever reason, Charlie had turned her focus from me to her. It would have to wait, though, until Kay was awake enough to understand.

              “Mr. Henning?” A nurse stood in the doorway. “I have a phone call for you. She says she’s your wife’s sister.”

              “My wife doesn’t have a sister. My wife is an only child.”

Chapter 17 Addison

            
 
The newsroom was empty when I got back from Watterson’s office.

              According to the white board posted above Millie’s former desk, Graham Kinnon was at court and Elizabeth was meeting with the city school superintendent, their destinations scrawled in red markers next to their estimated time of return.

              Photographer Pat Robinette had written FUR-LOWED TILL FRIDAY beside his name with a happy face scrawled inside the O.

              There was no destination or time of return listed for Marcus.

              I stepped back into my office and pulled a reporter’s notebook from my desk drawer, quickly writing down the details of Rowan Starrett’s life of deception as Rick had told me.

              Despite Watterson’s warning, I wasn’t going to let this whole thing go. If Rick was guilty of murder, he was guilty of murder. I wasn’t going to stand in the way of that. But if Rowan was still alive, whether he shot Virginia Ferguson or not, that was a story I was honing in on, regardless of the consequences.

              I thought about the contents of the envelope I spilled onto my dad’s kitchen table: How easy would it be to trace those money orders? Those phone calls?

              Rick wouldn’t have been stupid enough to buy a money order himself or use a credit card, would he? In his job, he could have had some intern or staffer do it.

              No, I thought. He would have been too smart for that—staffers and interns, particularly ones with a grudge, could spill their guts. I shuddered as I envisioned some earnest young kid fresh out of college in a white shirt and tie, standing wide-eyed in front of a TV camera, a microphone in his face, “Yes, I went down to the convenience store five blocks from the state office building every month with a wad of cash from Mr. Starrett.”

              It would have taken a lot of effort on Rick’s part for Rowan Starrett to remain hidden for ten years. A casual errand by a staff member discovered by the wrong person would have undone all of that.

              And what about Rowan’s funeral? There was a casket—I’d seen it myself. But was there a body? How could that deception have occurred without some collusion with a local undertaker?

              A quick search of “Rowan Starrett” in the editorial computer system gave me several dates for stories containing that name appeared with a note “see archives.”

              I walked back through the newsroom, to a room slightly larger than a closet that we called our morgue, where stacks of past bound volumes and binders of CDs containing PDF formats of old editions were stacked. I began searching for the story I’d written on Rowan’s funeral.

              I found the binder of CDs for the year Rowan was supposed to have died and headed back into my office. A little more searching and I found the disc, inserted it into the computer and, after a few clicks began to read my story directly from that day’s front page:

Former Hockey Player Rowan Starrett Laid To Rest

By Addison McIntyre

Managing Editor

              Former professional hockey play and Jubilant Falls native Rowan Starrett was laid to rest today in Founder’s Cemetery, following the discovery of his suicide Sunday.

              More than 100 people, including his brother, former city manager Rick Starrett, fans, former NHL players and family members, attended the graveside ceremony, where the Plummer County native’s athletic accomplishments were remembered.

              Rowan Starrett was the goalie for the 1997 Stanley Cup-winning Detroit Red Wings team and still holds the all-time NCAA goaltending record.

             
What was not discussed was Starrett’s highly publicized battle with a gambling addiction and drugs that let to a conviction for fraud. The conviction resulted in a prison sentence and his banishment from professional hockey for the remainder of his life. Rowan had been released from prison six months ago and had just moved to Columbus, according to Rick Starrett when Rowan didn’t show up for their mother’s birthday dinner.

              Pat had taken a photo from a respectful distance, showing a large group of people dressed in black, as the casket was unloaded from the back of an unmarked hearse.

              I skipped down several paragraphs to the end of the story and found what I was looking for:
Services were under the direction of the Hepplewhite Funeral Home.

              Hepplewhite Funeral Homes was an odd choice for the Starrett family, I thought at the time. Prominent residents of Jubilant Falls, like the Starrett family, were known to use some of the more upscale funeral homes, located up and down the northern edge of downtown on Detroit Street. They’d been the big, gaudy Victorian homes of Jubilant Falls’ early industrialists and now had fleets of hearses in what had been coach houses and parking lots where expansive yards had once been.

              Not Hepplewhite—their funerals were politely referred to as “budget” and they attracted those families whose concern with grandma’s send-off was more financial than filial. A number of their obituaries ended with “Memorial contributions may be made to the funeral home to help defray expenses” and more often than not, the checks to cover the cost of those obituaries came slowly.

              Would a fat check from Rick Starrett have covered up a small detail like an empty casket and helped an ailing family business?

              The business had been sold a few years after Rowan’s death, after the home mistakenly cremated a family member against the survivor’s wishes. There had been a nasty civil suit against the home and an investigation by the state funeral director’s board. Bob Hepplewhite surrendered his license, sold his business and retired to Vero Beach, but not before he’d stuck a bony finger in my face and let me know what he thought about the
Journal-Gazette
splashing the story all over the front page.

              “You forget, Missy, how many obituaries I’ve put in this paper and how much money that cost me,” he’d sputtered. “And you pay me back like this? When your time comes, I hope somebody drops your casket.”

              Hepplewhite’s was bought by a funeral home from Cincinnati and was now called the Hepplewhite-Cedars Funeral Home, and the new funeral director Arianna Jones, gladly continued to put obituaries in my paper, as well as pay for them on time.

              I’d have to pay a visit to Ms. Jones the first chance I got. Maybe even on the way home this evening.

              I picked up a pen and began to make notes.

              What about the name Rowan was living under? How could I find that out? Was that something he was given through federal witness protection? Was he even part of witness protection? That was probably not likely, since he was in touch with his brother. That would have been forbidden if he were, unless he was violating the terms of his agreement and his handlers didn’t know it.

              I bounced the tip of my pen off my chin. Rick said Rowan needed to disappear to hide from people he still owed money to. But if Rick was sending him money on a regular basis, what was it for? Was he still gambling? Did he still do drugs?

              Or was he unable to find employment and Rick’s money was his sole support? The vicious TV commercials and Rick’s defeat at the polls could have meant Rowan no longer had a source of income. Could that have sent Rowan, dependent on his brother’s checks, over the edge? Defeating one could have meant defeating them both—and Rowan would want revenge.

              Rick had said that it was those commercials that sent Rowan to Virginia Ferguson’s door. Was it the loss of Rick’s future income—or Rick’s honor—that Rowan sought to avenge? Was it fear that no more checks would be coming? Was it a fear that his death would be uncovered as a farce?

              It had been ten years. A lot could happen to someone over that many years. Rowan had married; maybe he’d even had children, and turned into one of those church-going suburban types whose murderous secrets lay just below the surface.

              I picked up my notebook and my purse. It was time to visit Ms. Arianna Jones and at least take the first step toward finding Rowan Starrett.