Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) (22 page)

              “So Rick shot her.”

              “Yeah and he decides he’s going to spill enough of my story to make it look like I shot her. And now, I’m gonna shoot you.”

              There was an explosion.

              “Kay,” I whispered and everything went black.

*****

              A SWAT team member pulled Rowan Starrett’s dead body off me and rolled me over. Birger was still holstering his sidearm as he walked into the study.

              “You OK?” Birger asked.

              Sitting up, I nodded and rubbed the back of my head where the barrel had been.

              I shook my head at the carnage throughout the room. In the corner, beside the partner’s desk, paramedics were covering Charlie’s bloody body with a sheet. Rowan’s wet and sticky blood was soaking through the back of my shirt and pooling on the hardwood floors. The heavy curtains were spattered in red and cold winter air came through the broken glass as other paramedics lifted Rowan’s corpse, a single bullet in the back of his head, into a body bag. There was a single hole in the side of the partner’s desk.

              Birger reached for me and pulled me up to my feet.

“Your phone never disconnected from dispatch,” he said.               “We got everything on tape.”

              “Good.”

              Using a pencil, he picked up the Glock by the trigger guard. “This yours?”

              “Yes. And I don’t ever want to see it again.”

“              We followed Charlie in an unmarked car after she left the bus station. We didn’t figure she would keep the terms of her plea agreement. She met Rowan again and when we tried to follow, we lost them. We searched all over for them until we got your 911 call. Looks like they were headed back here all the time. You were wise to put your wife at that hotel.”

              “You knew I did that?”

              “You don’t think we weren’t going to keep an eye on you? We’ve got more than one unmarked cruiser. It’s been at the hotel since you left her there. She’s fine. A little pissed off, but fine.”

              I sighed. A radio crackled and the police officer beside Birger spoke into the microphone at his shoulder.

              “There are reporters outside,” he told Birger. “Graham Kinnon from the
Journal-Gazette
and he’s says he’s got an intern with him. A couple TV stations, too.”

              “OK.” He turned to me. “You up to talking to reporters? Hell, I think one of them is your son.” He started to slap me on the back, but seeing the blood, thought the better of it. “Go change your shirt first—and bring it back here. We’ll need it for evidence.”

              Outside, my front yard was ringed with yellow caution tape and the street was blocked with police cars and ambulances. I watched as a cop lifted the tape and two coroner’s employees rolled Rowan and Charlie’s bodies on gurneys to a white unmarked van. Graham already had Birger cornered and was peppering him with questions as Pat Robinette moved around, shooting the scene.

              “Dad!” PJ called out. Ignoring the police, he ducked under the caution tape, running toward me. We met in the middle of the yard in a crushing embrace.

“It’s OK,” I said. “It’s over.”

Chapter 37 Addison

            
 
On Wednesday, after the presses stopped rolling and the day’s edition was on the street, Watterson Whitelaw locked the front door and gathered all of us into the back of the pressroom for our annual Thanksgiving luncheon.

              Each year, Watt bought the main fixings of the meal from the local grocery store and the staff, everyone from the front office clerical staff, circulation, advertising, the pressroom and the newsroom, brought in their favorite desserts and appetizers.

              It would be a welcome break before returning to work to finish the Thanksgiving Day edition. Stuffed with Black Friday advertising, Thursday’s edition would print at five o’clock this afternoon and be delivered after midnight, so as to give everyone the holiday off. The dance toward deadline would begin again Friday morning.

              We usually filled the inside pages with kids’ letters to Santa, sometimes a special investigative theme. This year, we managed to pull together a look back at the whole Starrett saga. I even managed to give PJ Armstrong a byline for a story he put together on stalking.

              But right now, it was time for celebration.

              Tables, covered with orange and green paper tablecloths from the Hallmark store, were lined up against the back wall. Large, steaming foil pans filled with the catered food sat on top of one table: a golden roasted turkey, a ham glistening in brown sugar syrup and studded with cloves, a mountain of au gratin potatoes, a pan of green beans and a large, clear, disposable bowl filled with salad. Just around the corner in the break room were pitchers of iced tea and lemonade and a pot of coffee.

              Spouses were invited to this event, too. I watched as they filtered in, many of them carrying annual favorites.                             The pressroom foreman’s wife brought her brownies; Dennis was carrying the Watergate salad Jane from advertising always made.

              Did I just see Jane’s hand around Dennis’s waist? I looked again. Maybe not—she had taken the salad from him and was pulling off the plastic wrap from atop the salad. He looked across the room at me and grinned.
I need to talk to that boy,
I thought to myself.

              There were cheese and crackers, cupcakes, chocolate chip cookies, homemade candy and fruit salad, most of it made by the advertising and clerical staff.

              Graham brought a bag of chips, a container of French onion dip—and the hand held police scanner.

              Elizabeth Day, my features and education writer was the only person from the newsroom to make the effort and actually bake something: two deep-dish pumpkin pies.

              Marcus and Kay came in, with PJ behind them, carrying a two-layer cake, still in its bakery box, the receipt taped to the top.

              “We ran into Duncan,” Marcus said. “He was in the checkout line behind us, buying cookies. He should be here soon.”

              Within a few minutes, everyone’s offerings were placed on the tables beside the catered meal and the staff took their places behind their chosen seats around the rented tables and folding chairs.

              At the table with the rest of the advertising staff, Dennis stood next to Jane, gazing at her like a sick puppy.

At the newsroom’s table, Kay Henning was the only one seated as Marcus stood protectively behind her. I stood beside Graham, with Elizabeth standing across the table from us.

              I looked up and down the tables, surveying the faces of everyone standing behind their chairs. How many years had I worked with these folks? Many of them were like family. We’d attended staff weddings, sometimes their children’s weddings, sent flowers at times of loss and pulled together to help in other times of tragedy.

              I’d bought Girl Scout cookies from their daughters, candy bars from their soccer-playing sons, and tried to be sincere and profanity free when I talked to their classrooms about being a newspaper editor.

              Duncan was the last to come into the pressroom. He slid a box of turkey-shaped sugar cookies onto the food table next to Elizabeth’s pies, before he slipped behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders.

              “Your dad called this morning,” he whispered in my ear. “He says he’s made his appointment for knee replacements, as he promised you. By the way, did you call Fisher Webb?”

              I nodded. “Right before I came down here,” I whispered in reply.

              “What did you tell him?”

              Before I could answer, Watterson waved his fat, wrinkly hands in the air and the chatter around us stopped.

              “May I have everyone’s attention, please?” he asked. “We have been through an awful lot this last year and especially this week. I want to thank each and every one of you for all of the effort you’ve put forth in these very trying times.”

              There was a polite round of applause and he continued to speak.

              “As many of you know, the
Journal-Gazette
has been in my family since 1823—”

              “Was that when you started, Watt?” one of the pressmen called out. Everyone laughed.

              He smiled and continued. “There are days when it sure feels like it. I’ve been here since 1960, when I was twenty-five. That’s close to fifty years and it’s time for me to call it a day.”

              The pressroom reverberated with “No!” and “Awww!”

              Had he sold to the brokers I’d met on Saturday? I looked up at Duncan, who shrugged, as if he knew my thoughts.

              Watterson continued. “Most of you already know her, but right now I’d like to introduce my daughter, Earlene Whitelaw.” Polite applause masked concerned and curious glances among the staff members.

              Earlene Whitelaw Baxter Hernandez Goldman Jones, in a too-tight royal blue dress that showcased her breast implants, and black patent-leather stiletto heels, entered from the back of the pressroom. Her bottle-blonde hair was sprayed into immobility, as curly and tall as the mane of any Miss Texas pageant hopeful and she waved both hands above her head as she took her place beside her aging father.

              I shook my head in disbelief as Watterson began to speak again.

              “I am pleased to announce, however, that in this age of corporate takeovers and closures, the newspaper will remain in the hands of the Whitelaw family. I have to tell you all that I was looking to sell the
J-G
. I even fielded a couple offers to sell it.”

              The staff groaned.

              “Wait! Wait! Wait! Then I got a call from my darling Earlene, who said she was ready to come home. Earlene has agreed to return to Jubilant Falls and take over running the
Journal-Gazette.
”

              This time, the staff applauded politely. Marcus leaned around Kay to whisper, “He’s kidding us, right?”

              “Doesn’t look like it,” I whispered back.

              “Holy shit.”

              “Yup.”

              The applause died down as Earlene began to speak. Her accent was thicker and broader than any Texas native. Why did she suddenly change her mind about taking over the paper? Maybe her fourth marriage bit the dust and this time, she hadn’t come away with the Porsche, the house or any spousal support.

              “Daddy told me he wants to hang on till the end of the year and officially start his retirement on January first, so at that time I will be taking the reins here at the
Journal-Tribune,
” she said.

              “
Gazette
,” Whitelaw corrected her softly.

              “Yes—
Gazette.
I’m looking forward to working with each and every one of you.” Earlene smiled as her father patted her arm and folded his hands over his ample belly.

              “Well, let’s eat folks!” he beamed.

I cringed as I considered what direction Earlene would take the paper.

              “What would be worse?” I asked Duncan as we strolled toward the food-laden table. “A corporate raider who’s never set foot in a newsroom or a spoiled brat who’s daddy owned the paper and who never worked a day in her life?”

              “You got me,” he answered. “Right now, though, it seems kind of rude to bemoan her taking over while we’re eating food her daddy bought.”

              “True,” I said. After filling our plates, we returned to our seats and the conversation turned to other things. We would have time to complain later—and I knew we’d be doing it a lot.

              “So, Kay, how are you feeling?” I asked.

“I wear out pretty quickly, but I’m getting better every day,” she said, picking through her food. “Hopefully on Monday, my assistant can bring some of the more pressing Aurora Development items to the house for me to work on.”

“I’ll bet you were left with a real mess, with those two people shot at your house and everything,” Elizabeth said, tactlessly.

              “Elizabeth!” I said sharply. “Thank God I don’t have you dealing with crime victims!”

              “I’m just asking what everyone else is thinking,” she said. “So, what
are
you going to do about that?”

              “Well, most of the furniture in those rooms belonged to my mother,” Kay said slowly. “And frankly, it was time for a change.”

              “Yes,” Marcus said. “We’re getting all new furniture downstairs. We’re also remodeling the study, where the shootings took place. There is one piece of furniture that belonged to Kay’s father, a partner’s desk, and that will stay, even though it’s got a bullet hole in one side.”

“That bullet, frankly, was a personal gift from Detective Mike Birger and I, for one, am very thankful for it,” Kay said. She leaned against Marcus, who kissed the top of her red hair.

              “So what’s going to happen to Rick Starrett?” Elizabeth turned to me.

              “He wants to change his plea, Anna Henrickssen told me this morning,” I said. “He’s admitted to the whole story, including letting Rowan take the blame for all the gambling that put him in federal prison. She’s going to try to negotiate with Steve Adolphus for a life sentence. He’d hinted at the death penalty apparently. It’s the lead story for Thursday’s paper. The name Deke suddenly makes sense now, too. Rick was Rowan’s decoy, especially on that video and it sent his brother to prison.”

              “Even creepier, he let it happen,” Marcus interjected.

              “So did you ever hear why they wanted everybody to believe they weren’t twins?” Graham asked. “I could never get it out of Rick Starrett.”

              “I have no idea,” I answered. “For some reason, while their mother was alive, they couldn’t tell the truth without hurting her and they didn’t want to do that. Then after she was gone, they’d already faked Rowan’s death. Family secrets are funny things.”

              “And speaking of family secrets…” Duncan whispered in my ear.

              “I called him, OK?” I said, loudly. “I turned the job down.”

              Everyone around the table was suddenly silent.

              “What?” Graham asked.

              “Fisher Webb, the president of the hospital, offered me a job last week as head of public relations. I turned it down.”

              “You turned it down?” Duncan asked.

              “Yes. I turned down the hospital PR job. I’m staying here.”

              Everyone turned to Duncan, looking for his reaction. He shrugged, a flummoxed look on his face.

              “So she’s staying here, I guess,” he said.

              I stood and picked up my piece of pie. “C’mon folks—let’s get back at it. We got a paper to put out.”