Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) (8 page)

Chapter 11 Marcus

              In a few more hours, I awoke, stiff and uncomfortable. Rubbing my palms across my face, I stood, bleary-eyed. Nodding at the nursing staff behind the desk in the center of the ICU, I left Kay’s room, but the memories of that weekend last year in Seattle kept coming. Outside in the hallway, I leaned against the cool wall and just let the memories flow.

*****

              Drunk with liquor and post-speech euphoria, it was after two in the morning when Charlie and I staggered out of the elevator and down the hotel hallway, laughing loudly.

              The author dinner went well; I’d hit all the high points in my speech. I’d kept my notes in order and didn’t stumble once—a good thing, since I’d given the speech two times before: once at a freshman English class at Golgotha College in Jubilant Falls and at a teacher’s in-service meeting for the Jubilant Falls City Schools.

              The standing ovation humbled me. The number of folks buying me drinks in the bar afterwards probably did the same to my liver.

              The
Post-Intelligencer
had a story about the conference on the front page of the entertainment section—while Charlie’s book cover was showcased in a two-column photo and her interview was the focus of the piece, my book cover and headshot, (supplied by Promotions) each got a one-column photo and a couple paragraphs at the end of the story, along with the conference schedule on the inside page.

              I felt somebody try to stuff something into my back pants pocket and turned sharply. A cigarette drooping from one side of her lopsided smile, Charlie had the folded newspaper pages between two fingers of one hand.

              I laughed and stepped close to take the paper from her. She stepped a little closer—too close.

              “Thought you’d want to take some of this excitement home,” she said, her voice dark and throaty.

              I wasn’t thinking of Kay as the booze kept coming. I wasn’t thinking of anything. This was a hard-drinking crowd—Charlie and I weren’t the last folks to leave the hotel bar when it finally closed.

              I dug through my breast pocket searching for my room key card, Charlie hanging on my arm. Laughing raucously, we fell against a hall table, knocking an arrangement of satin flowers out of its pounded tin vase and onto the floor.

              I found my card and we fell together against my room door. Charlie’s lips found mine as her body pressed against me. My hands slipped up her sides, closing in on her breasts, feeling the satin of her black dress caress her ribs. Abruptly, I stopped and pushed her away, suddenly and horribly sober.

              “Charlie—stop. I can’t—this isn’t right,” I said hoarsely. “My wife…”

              She stepped back and smoothed her hair and her dress, hanging her head, equally embarrassed at our drunken kiss, I assumed.

              I slipped my key card into the lock and opened my door.

              “Listen—let’s just forget it happened, OK?” I said. “We’ve had way too much to drink. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you in the morning.” I took a step into my hotel room.

              “Marcus—”

              I turned around. Charlie rocked back on her heels, took one uncertain step toward me and slumped into my arms, out cold.

*****

              Kay moaned slightly as I reentered her room.

The nurse was at her side, injecting medication into her IV tube. Kay’s face was white, her red hair spread out on white pillow. I traced the blue veins on her hand closest to me.

              “Everything OK?” I asked the nurse.

              She nodded. “She’s coming out of the anesthesia and she’s starting to feel pain. This is just a little something to keep the edge off. We’re going to keep her fairly well sedated for a while to keep her out of pain.”

              “She’s going to be OK, right?”

              “She’s not completely out of the woods, but it’s looking better.”

              I sighed.

              She smiled and patted me on the shoulder as she passed from the room. “Looks like you have another visitor.”

              He had the same ramrod posture as his father, the same blonde hair cut high and tight. This morning, he wore blue jeans and a tee shirt and his eyes were red from either lack of sleep or crying. His leather pilot jacket emblazoned with wings and his rank—Lt. Andrew Armstrong—hung on his shoulders.

              The women in the nursing unit seemed to stand a little taller and smile a little brighter. Like his father, he had that effect.

              “Just tell me she’s going to be OK, Dad,” Andy said. “Tell me she’s going to be OK.”

*****

              “I swear to God, there better be a good reason you’re calling me at this shit-ass hour of the morning.” Joel, my agent, picked up on the third ring.

              I sat in an armchair across from the bed, my cell phone clutched tightly against my ear. Charlie lay on her back, spread-eagled, breathing deep and regular, on the room’s only queen bed. I’d laid her on her side when I originally brought her into the room, fearing she’d throw up. She’d soon slumped over on her side and I caught a glimpse of the red satin triangle of her underwear.

              The message light on the room phone blinked red. My cell phone showed four missed calls from home—Kay no doubt calling to see how the speech had gone. How could I call her back now?

             
Sorry I’m calling you so late—I have a drunken woman passed out in my bed.
Oh yeah, that would go over really well. Tomorrow it wouldn’t be any better:
Sorry I didn’t call you back last night. The country’s hottest-selling mystery author and I got really drunk last night and she passed out in my hotel room.
Even better.

              “Joel, you’ve got to get me out of a mess. Do you know Charlotte De Laguerre?”

              “Charlie? Oh Jesus. Don’t tell me you got booked into this conference with Charlie De Laguerre.”

              “I did. She sat next to me on the flight out of Chicago.”

              “Where is she? Where are you?” Joel suddenly sounded alert and awake.

              “She’s here. With me.”

              “In your hotel room? Dude, I’ll do a lot for my authors, but—”

              “Joel, it’s not what you think—” Quickly I explained the situation.

              “If I’d known she was going to be with you, I would have made certain you were at least booked into another hotel,” Joel said. “She’s a barracuda when she’s been drinking.”

              “I guessed that. What’s her deal? She told me she was married on the plane. She sure didn’t act like it in the bar.”

“I don’t know. I think so. I know after her first two books I didn’t want to represent her any more because when she starts boozing, she’s absolutely out of control.”

              “Thanks.”

              “Has she got her purse with her? Can you find her room key?”

              “No, she doesn’t have a purse. Maybe she left it in the bar.”

              “Knowing Charlie, she never brought it with her. Once she sets her sights on someone, she’s a rocket on rails. And it looks like you were her target.”

              “Great.”

              “Go down to the lobby. See if they can find you another room for the night. The extra expense will be worth it. I’ll call your publisher in the morning and see where else they have you going on this book tour—and I’ll check to see if Charlie’s going with you. You’re going to have to get yourself out of this mess tonight, but let me see if I can prevent any further disasters.”

              “OK.” Ending the phone call, I stood and gathered what I’d need in the morning—a toothbrush, a change of clothes. I’d come back for my jacket and my briefcase.

              I froze as Charlie moaned in her sleep, shifting to her side. For a few moments, I watched her breathe. When I was confident she wasn’t going to wake up, I tiptoed to the door and closed it quietly behind me.

*****

              “So you want to tell me who answered your goddamn room phone this morning when I called?”

              It was Kay on my cell phone that next awful morning. It took me a moment to adjust to my surroundings. The new room was a mirror image of the one I’d abandoned. I cringed as I thought of Charlie’s gravelly voice on the other end of Kay’s phone call.

              “Answer me, Marcus.”

              “I’m—I’m sorry. I changed rooms and forgot to call you. The folks in the next room were really loud and really drunk. After I left, they must have rented it to someone else.”

              She seemed to buy my easy lie and I hated that. As she began to chatter about what was going on back in Jubilant Falls that morning, I tried to sound relaxed. In the background, I heard the sound of our marriage cracking. Maybe I was the only one who heard it—or maybe not.

Chapter 12 Addison

            
 
The jail conference room had no windows, probably to keep the inmate focused on his defense attorney in front of him and providing a decent defense, but it fucking irritated the hell out of me.

              It was after deadline Tuesday when I sat down in one of the industrial-style chairs with Rick Starrett and Anna Henrickssen. Without speaking, I pointed at the camera in the top corner of the ceiling pointing right on the table.

              “Don’t worry. This is covered by attorney-client privilege. Everything we say is confidential, and the camera won’t be turned on,” Anna said, reaching over to pat Rick on the hand. He shifted in his chair and the sound of his shackles chained to the wall rattled my nerves. He took a deep breath. I lifted my pen above my reporter’s notebook and as he spoke, prepared to write.

              “Penny, we’ve known each other since high school. You’ve known me and my brother forever—”

              “Rowan’s death was such a loss,” I said, putting down my pen.

              “I’m glad you thought so.” His tone turned sarcastic. “Rowan was as much a chain around my ankles as these are.” He gestured to the shackles.

              “Oh, c’mon, Rick. Everybody thinks that about their little brother—what was Rowan, a year or two younger than you?”

              Rick clenched his fists; his knuckles went white. “There’s a lot you don’t know about my dear departed brother.”

              “Like what?” How many times have we run stories on Rowan Starrett at the
Journal-Gazette
?

              “Rowan was a loser. He’d always been a loser. He was the second twin born, had a few problems and our mother coddled him like you wouldn’t believe.”

              “Wait, Rowan was your
twin?”
The air came out of my lungs in one breath. I felt light-headed, like one of the things I counted on—my high school memories—was a lie.
“But he wasn’t in our grade at school!”

              “Of course he wasn’t! My mother didn’t think he was ready for school, so she taught him at home for a little while. She did such a lousy job that when he started school a year behind me, the school demoted him again. Rather than tell the truth when we moved here to Jubilant Falls, she made us tell everyone he was my little brother and not my twin. We lived with that lie all through school.”

              “Wasn’t there any time he had to produce his birth certificate? If he was two years behind you, he started college at age twenty.”

              “Yes, he did. Said he was eighteen.”

              Every shiny high school memory was now tarnished and stained. The golden brothers I’d known all these years—the politician and the hockey player—were liars. The stories we’d written, following Rick and Rowan’s individual rise and fall in their very different fields, were at their heart, untrue. This was a side of the Mr. Clean Golden Boy I’d never seen and I didn’t like it one bit.

              “How could you? Why would your whole family keep up this-this lie? And for your entire lives? So Rowan’s scholarship to OSU was a lie too?”

              “You know what I had to do the night after Jubilant Falls’ favorite son set the NCAA record for blocking goals? Pull him out of a goddamned emergency room because he’d gotten beat up by his bookie for ducking out on a bet. He was drunk out of his mind—and it wasn’t the first time that happened.”

              Anna held up her hand to rein in the conversation. “My client isn’t here to rehash his brother’s college career. We need to get back to the reason he brought you here,” she said.

              I nodded. “Yes, you’re right. “

Rick opened his fists and lowered his head. He inhaled then exhaled and slowly looked up to meet my gaze.

“Rowan killed Virginia. I know he did.”

              “But Rowan is dead! You told me he committed suicide after he was released from federal prison! I went to his funeral! I wrote the story!”

              Rick shook his head slowly back and forth. “No, Penny. Rowan isn’t dead. It was all a lie, like everything else in his life. He didn’t commit suicide. He told me that he needed to disappear after he got out of prison. He said he still owed people money and they were going to kill him if they ever found him.”

              “But the funeral! The casket! All the people there—”

              Rick nodded. “They all thought the same thing you did.”

              I remembered his mother throwing herself across Rowan’s casket at the funeral, sobbing.

“Your mother thinks her son is dead! How could you do that to your mother?”
I cried.

              He nodded again, this time sadly, regretfully. “I know. He wanted it that way. I tried to talk him out of it.” His voice trailed off and he sighed. “I gave him the money he needed to disappear.”

              “How often did you hear from him?”

              Rick shrugged. “Once a year, maybe twice, then more often recently.”

              “What had he done with his life?”

              “He got a new name, got married again. He’d started all over again, supposedly. We started talking more lately, a couple times a month or so. He was very, very upset about the commercials Virginia was running about me. He didn’t think they were fair or accurate, which they weren’t, as you know. After she beat me on Election Day, he threatened to go after her.”

              “When did he say that? Before or after you came into my office and said you were going to make Virginia Ferguson pay?”

              “Before—the day after the election, and then we talked like an hour before I came to see you.”

              “On the phone or in person? Does Rowan have a cell phone?”

              “On his cell phone.”

              “Did you know where he was when he called?”

              “No.”
              “When was the last time you saw him—really, physically saw him?”

              “The day before his funeral, ten years ago. I bought him bus ticket back to Chicago.”

              “So he could be back in Jubilant Falls—or he was.”

              “Which is why Virginia Ferguson identified Rick as her killer,” Anna said. “And as an identical twin, Rowan is going to have the same DNA as Rick. If there is DNA of any kind on the victim’s body, the police investigation will find it and my client will go to prison for a homicide he didn’t commit.”

              Anna pulled a manila envelope from her briefcase and pushed it across the table to me. “Here’s what information we have on Rowan Starrett. It’s all we’ve got to go on. We need your help.”

              “Please, Penny, I need you to find Rowan. Please. Don’t let get me convicted of something I didn’t do.”

*****

              I blinked as I walked back into the white winter sunlight, Rick’s envelope tucked under my arm. I had no idea what I had. What would I do from here? Researching public records wasn’t hard—but, if what I had wasn’t public record, could I find him? I didn’t want to go back to the newsroom before I knew. If Rowan Starrett faked his suicide in order to disappear off the face of the earth, it could make a search for him more than problematic. It could make it impossible.

              At least I had one person I could turn to. Three blocks beyond Jubilant Falls’ struggling downtown was the historic district and its centerpiece, the huge Victorian home that my father, retired state trooper Walter Addison, called home.

              Dad had been the Jubilant Falls post commander as I grew up, both of us under the watchful eye of his mother, Grandma Addison. She’d taken over after my mother June disappeared, the victim of her own bipolar disorder and later, a drunk driver. Dad and I shared the apartment above the coach house as our own —those times when he worked nights, Grandma tucked me into one of her guest room beds.

              If anybody could find Rowan Starrett, Dad could.

              I pulled a cigarette and lighter from my purse. I wasn’t going to open the envelope until Dad could see it too. I lit my cigarette and, snuggling the collar of my winter coat around my neck, walked the three blocks through Jubilant Falls’ downtown south toward Dad’s.

*****

              Despite it being close to three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Dad was still in his robe and pajamas when I walked through the back door. He was sitting in his recliner, pointing the remote at the TV, pressing the buttons and cursing. As time passed, the arthritis in his knees kept him inside more and more, keeping him from the gardening he loved and curdling his already sour attitude. The cold weather made it worse, so what I was seeing was nothing new.

              Frowning, he turned and pointed the remote at me. “Goddamn cable TV. I can’t get the channel to change. Who the hell wants to look at a bunch of idiot women sitting around a table yammering about some stupid D-list celebrity trying to win a dance show?”

              I took the remote from him. “When was the last time you changed the batteries in this thing?” Without waiting for an answer, I walked back into the kitchen toward the junk drawer. I poked through the drawer until I found two new AAAs, opened the back of the remote and switched out the batteries. Back into the living room, I pointed the remote at the TV, punching in the ESPN channel numbers.

              Dad threw up his hands as the rerun of Sunday’s football game came on the screen. “That’s more like it. I don’t know why things have to be so goddamned difficult these days.”

              I laid the remote down on the end table beside him and handed him Rick Starrett’s envelope. “I got a project for you.”

              “What’s this?” Dad shook the envelope.

              “I’m not entirely sure. I haven’t opened it myself.”

              “Where did you get it?”

              “Rick Starrett—the guy who’s being held for Virginia Ferguson’s murder.”

              Dad’s eyebrows arched in interest. I could see the pain in his knees wasn’t as bad anymore.

              “He says his brother Rowan did it. Remember him? The hockey player who did time in federal prison for gambling and fraud?”

              “Ahhh. The one who fixed the hockey games? Then once he got out of Club Fed killed himself?”

              “You got it. Only Rick says he didn’t really kill himself. Rowan’s supposedly still around and he’s the one who really pulled the trigger.”

              Dad struggled his feet and pointed his cane toward the kitchen. “Let’s look at this where there’s some decent light and some fresh coffee.”

*****

              Once the coffee was brewing, we opened the envelope and spread the contents across the kitchen table: a series of photocopied money orders with no name, Rick’s cell phone bill from the last few months with numbers highlighted in yellow marker, copies of envelopes addressed to “Job Listing” at a Chicago post office box, some letters. Nothing was original—everything was a copy.

              “I’m assuming the defendant’s lawyer has the originals?” Dad asked.

              “I think that’s a good assumption. Do you still have contacts with OSP? Any of your investigator buddies still there in Columbus? Anybody you can ask a favor of?”

              He shrugged. “It might depend on what you want to know.”

              I pointed to the cell phone bills, one of them from October, just last month. “I want to know what name these phone numbers are attached to and where that phone was when those calls were made. Rick is saying that he spoke to Rowan shortly before Virginia Ferguson was shot. If he’s telling the truth the cell phone call had to have been made here in Plummer County. Maybe somebody up at OSP headquarters can find out where that call was made.”

              “And if I can find out?”

              “It will prove to me that you can also pick up the phone to make an appointment to talk to your doctor about getting knee replacements.” I stood and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “I love you, Daddy. Whatever you can do for me, I’d appreciate it. I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ll stop by on my way home tonight.”

*****

              I managed to get my coat hung up in my office before staff started pouring through the door.

              “The police were here about Kay Henning,” Elizabeth Day leaned into the doorframe, her purple hair swinging into her eyes. “They want to get back into Marcus’s voicemail and see about those messages that were left the day she disappeared.”

              Graham was right behind her. “It looks like Kay Henning is in bad shape, but she’ll probably make it. I talked to Marcus today. He won’t go home to get some sleep. He wants you to call him later this afternoon. He’s wondering what kind of vacation time he’s got left to take.”

              I scribbled the request down so I’d remember. “I’ll find out and call him. Were the cops able to get into his voicemail? Who knows Marcus’s pass code for his voicemail?”

              Elizabeth smirked. “We’ve all got the same one.”