Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) (13 page)

Chapter 22 Kay

              Slowly, my eyes opened. Four nurses sat around the nursing station outside my doorway, with the one bright light over their heads.

              At night, when the lights went down, the only bright light was the one above the nurses station where nurses watched the patient monitors we were all connected to and the cleaning staff came through to mop the floors and empty the trash cans of the medical waste.

              The red letters of the digital clock told me it was early Thursday, nearly two in the morning. Thursday? The last thing I remembered clearly was walking down the bike path Sunday night.

              After a day or two, even through the haze of my pain medication, I could tell the rhythm of the day by the people who floated in and out: doctors to check my wounds, technicians to draw my blood, nurses to change my bandages and administer medication, those folks came mostly during the day. I watched cafeteria workers carry trays of solid food past my door three times a day. Family—my precious, precious children and Marcus—came early in the morning, later in the afternoon and briefly after dinner.

              Two men— police officers, it looked like— stood outside my door. Near the ICU unit door, a cleaning woman, in scrubs and a greenish hairnet, mopped the floor.

              My left hand wasn’t encased in tubes and surgical tape. I reached below my blanket to tenderly touch my incision covered with gauze and tape. I’d been filleted like a fish: the incision ran from just below my breastbone to just above my navel, and then hooked right along my ribs where the bullet went in. Vaguely, I remembered what the doctor told me my injuries were: I’d turned away as I was shot; the bullet entered my side, nicked my stomach and intestines, then destroyed my spleen.

              A wave of pain rolled through me and I moaned as I felt the staples beneath the gauze that held my incision together.

              One of the cops spoke to an older, stocky nurse behind the counter: “I need a smoke break. I’ll be right back.”

              “I’ve got to take a whiz,” the other one said. “I think she’ll be OK. I’ll be back in a minute, too.”

              They were here to watch me? Why?

              One of the nurses nodded. “I’ll go in and check on her and make certain she’s OK. It’s not like visitors are coming and going.”

              There was a buzz as the ICU unit’s mechanical door opened and the police officers stepped out. As they did, the cleaning woman rolled her bucket out of the way and into the empty patient bay next to mine.

              The nurse, who had short permed hair and a grandmotherly face, stepped from behind the counter and into my room.

              “You’re awake. How are we feeling?” she asked softly, smoothing my blankets.

              Another wave of pain rolled over me and I groaned again.

              “Not great,” I answered.

              “We can give you some pain medication. It’s time. Let me check your chart and I’ll be right back.”

              She was back momentarily and, using a syringe, injected more pain medicine into my IV line.

              “There. In a few minutes, you shouldn’t feel a thing and you’ll sleep like a baby.” The nurse placed my call button close to my left hand, patted my shoulder and returned to the other nurses at the central station.

              The cleaning lady inched closer to my door, moving her mop slowly back and forth, never lifting her head.

Somewhere further down in the ICU, a patient alarm went off; all the nurses ran toward the sound.

              “Get me a crash cart!” one nurse yelled. “Bed four—code blue!”

              The cleaning lady entered my room, pushing her wheeled bucket with her mop and began to wipe down the floor.

              “You’re Mrs. Henning, aren’t you?” she asked. Her voice was deep and scratchy, like she smoked too many cigarettes.

              “Mmm?” I felt the room tilt as the medication took effect.

              “Kay Henning?”

              “Uh huh. Who are you?”

              She stopped mopping and leaned over my bed into my face. She didn’t look like someone who had been mopping hospital floors all her life. Her face wasn’t round and smooth, she had a jutting jaw and hooked nose but she had nice skin, no wrinkles, even though she had to be close to my age. There were diamond studs in her ear lobes. Her eyes were wild, but as the painkiller kicked in, I couldn’t tell if she was crazy or terrified—or both.

              “Marcus is your husband, isn’t he?”

              “What?”

              “You changed your home phone number, didn’t you? You shouldn’t have done that. It won’t make this situation any better. It will only make it worse.”

              “Who are you?” I asked.

              The unit’s doors swung open as doctors ran past my door. I tried to reach for my call button but she grabbed it, holding it at arm’s length. Her voice dropped to a dark hiss.

              “You need to get a message to your husband. My name is Charlie. Tell him this isn’t over. Tell Marcus it’s just begun. Tell him he needs to be careful.”

              The room began to swirl and although my mouth worked, the pain medication slurred my words and fogged my brain. The room tilted once again and I heard the automatic door open. A police officer stepped back into the unit.

              Quickly, Charlie placed the call button back on the bed, just out of my reach and, before the cop took his place at my door, steering her wheeled bucket with her mop handle, walked casually from the unit as blackness enveloped me.

*****

              Marcus was sitting next to my bed when I awoke.

“Who is Charlie? Why are there police at my door?” My voice was slurred and hoarse as the medication faded.

              “What?” Panicked, Marcus pulled his chair closer and took my hand, wrapped in wires, surgical tape and tubes.

              “Charlie was in here, in the middle of the night.”

              “Oh my God. What happened? Did she hurt you? What did she say? Hey!” he called out to the cops. “My wife says someone was in here and threatened her last night. I thought you were supposed to be watching her round the clock!”

              “I wasn’t threatened exactly—”

              “What did she say?”

              Both police officers, different than the ones who were there last night, stood at the end of the bed, one writing furiously.

              “She wore scrubs, like a nurse but she was a cleaning lady, with a mop and a bucket. Her hair was covered. She said to tell you that it’s not over. That it’s just started.”

              “Where were the other officers?” Marcus asked.

              “I heard one left to go to the bathroom, the other said he needed a smoke break.”

              “How long were you alone?” one of the officers asked.

              “It wasn’t long. I just woke up in the night. I was in pain. The nurse came in to give me some more medication. That woman, that Charlie, came in right after I got it. Something happened with one of the other patients and all the nurses went running down to take care of him.”

              “So you were completely alone.” Marcus glared at the officers.

              One of the cops spoke into the microphone at his shoulder. “We’ve got Detective Birger on the way. We’ll find out what happened,” he said.

              Marcus hung his head. “I was afraid of this happening. I need to tell you something, but before I do, I want to tell you that you have always been the love of my life and I have never, ever been unfaithful to you.”

              “Who is she, Marcus?”

“I am so ashamed. I’m ashamed that this happened. This is all my fault.”

              My heart sank.

              “Just tell me you never slept with her, Marcus,” I whispered. “Just tell me you still love me.”

              “Remember that weekend I went to Seattle last year?” The story came tumbling out: meeting another author named Charlene Deifenbaugh on the plane, getting drunk in the hotel bar, the phone calls at work and at home.

              The story ended and Marcus hung his head.

              I was silent for a moment. “Don’t lie to me Marcus. I hope to God you aren’t lying to me,” I said.

              “I’ve always loved you—you know that, don’t you?” he whispered looking up at me. “What I did might not have been right, but I never meant to lie to you. What I did was to keep something painful from you—something I knew would hurt you.”

              I had to stop and catch my breath, my anger building. “Did it once cross your mind that the truth, however painful it might have been, was the best way to go?”

              “If I’d been honest with you, none of this would have happened. I was hiding everything from you, knowing how much this would hurt you. The truth is, she’s stalking me. If I’d done the right thing, I would have called the police, gotten a restraining order a year ago and this never would have happened. The police are here because we believe Charlie tried to kill you to get to me. The house is being watched and I went to court this morning to get a motion for a restraining order filed. The police are going to get her and this insanity will all come to an end.”

              “But it was a man who did this to me!” I remembered the dark, husky voice and the horrible body odor.

              “Did you see him? Could you identify him?”
              “No, but—”

              “The man who grabbed you—you sure his voice wasn’t the same as Charlie’s?”

              “I heard her voice and it wasn’t the same as the man who shot me!” I said, trying to sit up. Pain shot through me and, frustrated, I fell back onto my pillow. “I don’t care what you say—who ever Charlie is, she may want my husband, but she didn’t shoot me.”

Chapter 23 Marcus

              On Friday, I took Andy back to Symington Air Force Base to get on his flight back to Nellis in the Nevada desert.

              He was quiet and pensive on the drive over. I didn’t want to intrude on his thoughts, so didn’t speak much as I drove the Lexus through the base gates. I still wondered what was going through his head. As a drone pilot, was he considering his return to long-distance combat? What was it like to kill someone, even via video screen two oceans away? How did he turn that off at the end of his day? Or did he?

              Maybe he was thinking about his mother and her health. Or was he thinking about the woman who, despite Kay’s insistence to the contrary, shot her?

              Kay’s anger at me was understandable. Although I hadn’t been unfaithful, I’d sure skated around the edges, and my efforts to cover it all up—or ignore it on a wholesale level—resulted in her kidnapping and shooting. I’d be pissed at me too.

              I’d only done it because I hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Maybe I was wrong to handle it that way. Maybe she would understand. Maybe, sometime in the future that I’d only meant to keep our marriage intact.

              Near the runway—the flight line, as Andy corrected me—I pulled the Lexus to a stop in front of a grey-green nondescript building with a thick institutional-style metal door. A sign out front read “Base Ops/Passenger Terminal.”

              “Thanks, for bringing me, Dad,” Andy said. Together we walked to the trunk, where I unloaded his desert-camouflaged flight bag and handed it to him. He was dressed in his flight suit, his leather flight jacket and military boots. His blue flight cap sat rakishly atop his blonde head. His resemblance to his father showed more as the years passed. We hugged briefly, slapping each other on the back.

              “I’ll keep you in touch on Mom’s condition,” I said.

              “I know.”

              “And Andy—”

              “Yes?”

              “We’re proud of you, your Mom and I.”

              He smiled. “I know. And I know you love Mom. You guys will come through this. I know you will.”

              “I hope so.” After Charlie’s late night appearance in her intensive care room, my visits with Kay, a little standoffish when the kids were present, were downright frosty when we were alone.

              “Listen, I’ve got enough of my dad in me to know that most men are dogs when it comes to women,” he said. “You’re not like that—and I think down deep Mom knows that, too. I’ve chased more tail than I probably should ever admit to, but one of these days I hope to find someone who loves me the way you and Mom love each other.”

              “You will. You will.”

              We hugged again. Andy stepped back, saluted me and, picking up his flight bag, walked into the building. I sighed. Hopefully, the next time we saw each other would be under happier circumstances.

Chapter 24 Addison

            
 
“Have you seen this man?” My father slid Rowan Starrett’s federal mug shot across the table. It was ten years old, but it was all we had.

              I sipped my coffee, cautiously watching the waiter’s reaction.

              It was Saturday; as promised, Dad and I were in Columbus to find out if Rowan Starrett was having breakfast at any of the local eateries in Old North Columbus when he was calling his brother.

              The restaurant where we sat was dark and comfortable, one of those places that was open at six for a workingman’s breakfast and didn’t close until one thirty in the morning for Ohio State football revelers.

              I remembered it vaguely from my own college days—the tiles on the roof were individually painted, some dating back as far as the 1970s with everything from yin and yang symbols to marriage proposals to more drug and alcohol-based themes. Dark wood booths with red plastic upholstery stood in four rows, with a few tables interspersed among them. The bar was long and made of the same dark wood. A round mirror with a green and white neon ring hung behind the bar.

              Outside the restaurant where we sat, snow was falling and, at not yet ten in the morning, North High Street was filling with football fans, beers already in hand, in anticipation of Ohio State’s afternoon victory over their opponent.

              “Yeah, I see him every day.” The waiter, dressed in a black tee shirt and black pants, was big and bald with tattoos up his neck and brawny biceps. He slid the photo back towards Dad.

              “You do?” Dad asked, surprised.

              “Yeah—his photo hangs over the bar.” The waiter jerked his thumb toward a row of eight by ten portraits of OSU’s athletic greats along the ceiling by the bar. Most wore football uniforms, some held basketballs or, in some of the more recent photos, soccer balls. There was only one hockey player: Rowan Starrett, holding a stick and his hockey mask pushed atop his curly head, beaming down on the patrons from the photo.

              “Rowan Starrett hasn’t been here since he committed suicide ten years ago. I understand that’s how it works. Dead men don’t order a lot of food generally.”

              Dad tucked the photo inside his coat. “Thanks.”

              “No problem.” The waiter smirked and walked away.

              My shoulders sank. I laid a couple bills on the table to pay for our coffee and helped Dad stand. Slowly, we walked to the door.

              “This is the third place we’ve been to this morning, Dad,” I said, opening the restaurant door. “Two people now have told me that Rowan Starrett really isn’t dead, but it sure feels like we’re on some wild goose chase.”

              “That’s always possible, but who is making those phone calls? There are a couple other things we ought to think about first.”

              “Like what?”

              We stopped beside my blue Ford Taurus. Dad pulled Rowan’s photo from inside his jacket.

              “This photo is more than ten years old. Rowan could have changed his appearance by now—either intentionally with plastic surgery or had it changed for him, like in a fight. Any inmate with any kind of notoriety doesn’t fare will in prison. Pretty faces don’t stay pretty for long.”

              “That’s true,” I nodded

              “Ready to go home?” Dad slid into the front seat with a grunt, tucking his cane between his right leg and the door.

              “Not yet. We’ve got one more place to go.”

*****

              “Ms. Levenger? Ms. Rosalee Levenger?” We stepped from the Taurus and walked up the sidewalk of the suburban Columbus home.

              The middle-aged woman hanging the Christmas wreath on the door of her home turned around.

              “Yes?” Her round cheeks were red from the cold, but her brown eyes sparkled like someone’s kindergarten teacher.

              She wore a bright red, padded vest that made her look slightly more overweight than she already was. Her bulky red stocking cap had leaping white reindeer and snowflakes around the circumference, along with a white pompom at the tip. Black hair tinged with grey curled out from underneath the hat and her jeans were ironed, with creases down the center of the pants’ legs.

              “Hi, I’m Addison McIntyre with the Jubilant Falls
Journal-Gazette
and this is my father Walt. We’re here about your boss, Rick Starrett,” I reached out my hand in greeting.

              “Oh, yes. We’re all in shock over the entire thing. Why don’t you come in out of the cold? Would you like some coffee?” Rosalee opened the door of her home. She spoke with the soothing rhythmic cadence of someone paid to deal with small children—or politicians.

              “Sure. We’d love to,” I said.

              Dad shot a dirty look at me:
No we wouldn’t
. Within a few minutes, we were sitting around a small breakfast table in Rosalee’s over-decorated kitchen as she poured steaming coffee into china cups decorated with dancing teddy bears and Santas.

              “So you are Rick Starrett’s administrative assistant?”

              “Yes, I’ve worked at the Statehouse for a number of years. We all just can’t believe that Mr. Starrett would actually shoot that… that…
woman
!” Her voice jumped up and down in pitch, alternatively cajoling and condescending in tone, like a mother addressing a toddler, or a trainer talking to a puppy who’d just peed on the rug.

              “Well, he’s not been found guilty yet—” I began.

              “But, oh he hated her! He
so
hated Virginia Ferguson!” Rosalee shook her head. “Mr. Starrett, he wasn’t very good about keeping his temper in check and while I kept telling him that these campaigns can get really, really nasty, he didn’t take kindly to anyone saying bad things about his poor, deceased brother.”

              “That’s understandable.” Dad stirred his coffee.

              “Did Mr. Starrett have a lot of female friends?” I asked.

              Rosalee’s primary school smile froze. “Yes. Yes he did—for a while. I understand that was why he and Mrs. Starrett got divorced—such a nice, nice lady, don’t you think? He went through kind of a wild period—well, no, that’s not right. He
dated
a lot of girls—I’ll say it that way.
Dated
. Until he met that nice lawyer lady and they seem to be getting serious.”

              “Did he ever do anything you thought was a little questionable?”

              “No. Like what?”

              “Did he ever ask anyone in the office to do anything that might have seemed unethical? Like send money to anyone?”

              “Oh,
that
!”

              Dad leaned forward, leaning on his cane with both hands. “What?”

“              Every once in a while, he went out to go get a money order and mail it for those extra child support payments.”

              “Child support?” I stopped writing suddenly. “Every divorced person I know has their child support deducted automatically from their paycheck on a court order.”

              “Oh yes. His was too, but every now and then Mr. Starrett told me the ex-Mrs. Starrett needed something extra and he needed a money order to send it directly to her.”

              Rosalee stirred her coffee, her empty vapid smile still on her face. I couldn’t help thinking this woman had no clue what went on with Rick Starrett’s personal life—or possibly anyone else’s.

              Dad shot me another look—he saw the same thing. “So did he send cash or a check?” he asked.

              “He always got a money order. He said it would be easier for him to get the money order if he had cash. He would go someplace up on High Street and get a money order and bring it back. Since it was so personal, he would address the envelope and mail it himself, too. During the campaign, when he was really busy, however, he sent one of his campaign staffers out once or twice to get the money order for him.”

              “Who did Mr. Starrett ask to get these money orders? Do you know how much cash he would send with him?” I couldn’t believe Rick would be so stupid. He had to have been wrapped up in the campaign so deeply that he couldn’t step away to get money for Rowan, but a campaign staffer?

              “I don’t remember his name,” Rosalee’s plump face furrowed in thought. “There were so many of them I can’t remember most of them, but they usually came from the same county as Mr. Starrett. He wanted to help out the hometown college students whenever he could, you know. I don’t know how much money he’d give them.”

              “How can I find out their names, then?”

              “You’d have to contact whoever was in charge of his campaign. There are so many people in and out of that office, sometimes I get confused.”

              Dad shot me another hard look. Was Rosalee just so clueless she hadn’t noticed?

              “Well, thank you for your time and for your delicious coffee,” I said. I helped Dad stand as he balanced on his cane.

              “Oh, not a problem. I wish I could have helped you more.”

              Within a few minutes, we were back in the Taurus.

              “I don’t think we accomplished anything today—I’m ready to head home. How about you, Dad?” I turned the ignition key and my old car sputtered to life.

              “We’re not going anywhere until I can find a bathroom. By the way, did you bring one of Rick Starrett’s envelopes with you? The ones that came from the convenience store she was talking about? While we’re here, we really should chase down who bought those money orders.”

              Down in the bottom of my purse, my cell phone began to ring.

              “Hang on—” I pulled out the phone and touched the screen to answer. “Addison,” I said.

              It was Whitelaw. “Addison, where are you? You’ve got to get to the paper—
right now!
”