The Major's Wife (Jubilant Falls series Book 2)

by Debra Gaskill

  I tossed the cold dregs of my morning coffee from a Styrofoam cup into the trash. "I gotta get out of here."

  "And where shall I tell your clamoring public they can find you?" Jess poured himself a cup of coffee from a metal Thermos bottle.

  "In hell."

  "Hey, buddy, what's wrong? You did a great job here! You should celebrate!"

  "You know Goddamn good and well what's wrong. This is some game to you, some fucking David and Goliath story, and we've just been handed the golden slingshot. It's eating me up inside, Jess, and you won't see it. This story just ripped apart everything I ever hoped Kay and I could have together, and all you want is a damn headline. It's not worth it to me, Jess. It's just not worth it. This is the last story I write for the Journal-Gazette."

  Jess jumped up and stopped me in the doorway. "Not so fast, Bright Eyes. You've got one more story to cover for me! You owe—"

  Behind him, I saw the door open and a Louisville Slugger poised, seemingly, to send one deep into left field.

  "Jess! Look out!"

  The bat seemed to swing in slow motion, making contact with Jess's left cheekbone and jaw, a sickening crunch of wood against bone, as a dark ski-masked hulk filled the newsroom doorway. There were screams; Jess's body, jerky and loose, swung like a marionette on a stick, his left arm in front of his gory skull for protection. The bat came down again on his outstretched arm, sending Jess's body against me. Blood, teeth, and tissue left their mark on my shirt, as he slid to the floor, his eyes fixed and glassy.

  The hulk turned his attention to me, roaring like an animal as he raised his bat again to strike. I leaped over the city desk, as the Slugger came down on a computer, and taking Jess's Thermos by the handle tossed the hot coffee in the attacker’s face.

  He screamed in pain, reeling backward across the newsroom floor in an attempt to escape. I had one chance to catch him; both hands on the Thermos handle now, I was running on pure adrenalin. I followed him in his backward stagger and swung as hard as I could.

  There was thud, as the metal bottom struck his temple, and he fell to the ground, unconscious. Quickly, I stripped off the wet ski mask.

  It was the goon from Aurora Development.

  * * *

  You gotta pull through this, Jess. Don't die on me buddy. Don't die.

  I stood helplessly at the door of the emergency room as the paramedics ran past with Jess on a gurney.

  Thick layers of bloodstained gauze covered the left side of his face. His left arm was splinted, and his breathing came in wet, gurgling gasps. Drops of blood hung on the inside of the transparent oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

  "He's going to make it, right?" I grabbed a paramedic by the shirt.

  "You need to sign him in. That's the best thing you can do right now." He yanked my hand from his sleeve and disappeared behind the swinging doors at the end of the hall.

  "Where the hell do I do that?" I yelled.

  "Sir, there is no need for that." I turned to see a tall, rawboned nurse standing behind a white counter. "We have other patients here."

  "Is this where I sign? My boss just came in with the ambulance."

  "Name?"

  "Jesse Foster Hoffman. Look, what are they doing back there?"

  "Sir, until I get this information from you, I can't tell you anything. Address?"

  "Um…1745 Conway Drive."

  "Phone?"

  “Why do you need all this? He's dying back there, and I want to know what you're going to do for him!"

  "Sir, we need to complete these forms."

  "Shit. 555-1710."

  "Insurance policy number?"

  "What?"

  "Insurance. You did bring his insurance papers, didn't you?"

  "Well, we work at the same place, so it's all under the same policy." I reached back for my wallet and pulled out my card. "Here. Use this."

  "Sir, I need his account number. Putting his treatment under your name is fraud. If we don't have a policy number, he gets loaded right back onto the ambulance after we stabilize him."

  "I don't believe this. You would refuse treatment?"

  "Sir, this is a private hospital. We can't treat every indigent that comes through the door. Like I said, we would stabilize him before removing him to another facility."

  "He's not indigent! He's the editor of the friggin' paper!"

  "If you could call the newspaper then for his policy?" She reached for the telephone, but I got there first, yanking the console roughly over the counter. "Listen, Florence Nightingale, and listen good. That is my buddy in there, and you and your fucking staff will give him the best care you can. I don't know how you're going to get paid, but if we could be more concerned about his life than your money, I’d certainly appreciate it."

  The nurse's steely gaze matched my own. "Sir, if you don't sit down, I'm going to call security."

  I threw the phone back behind the counter. "Fine. As long as that man in there is not sent to another hospital." I flopped into a chair.

  The electronic doors parted, and Jess's wife, Carol, along with a burly police detective, ran through the door.

  "Marcus!" She hugged me briefly. "How is he?"

  Before I could answer, the detective extended his hand.

  "Marcus Henning? I’m Detective Mike Berrocco of the Jubilant Falls Police Department. While Mrs. Hoffman fills out the paperwork, I need to speak to you for a moment. Julie…" My favorite medico behind the counter looked up and smiled familiarly at the cop. "Toss me the keys to the conference room over here, will you?"

  "Sure, Mike."

  Berrocco deftly caught the keys and ushered me down the hall to an adjacent room; a single table and five chairs were the only furnishings. Berrocco swept a ragged array of dog-eared and coverless magazines to a corner of the table and slapped a notebook down in front of him.

  "You got some pretty big brass ones, Mr. Henning," he smiled, trying to put me at ease. He slipped out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Our suspect is probably going to need five or six stitches himself."

  "How's everyone else down at the paper?"

  "A little shaken up, but that's understandable. I've got a couple patrolmen taking statements." Berrocco pulled a pipe from his jacket, tamping down the tobacco inside with his thumb.

  "Is that why you called me in here?"

  "No, Mr. Henning," Berrocco casually lit his pipe, sucking loudly on the stem until the embers glowed. "No. Does the name Grant Matthews mean anything to you?"

  "Oh my God, yes! His ex-wife and I, we're—we used to—" My heart constricted, within my chest.

  "I get the idea. Was it a nasty divorce? Big custody battle, or property settlement?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "You weren't named in the divorce? No adultery, no hanky-panky while she was married?"

  Not this marriage, I wanted to say. "They were only married a couple years, but he’d been charged with domestic violence at least once. She and I didn't get together until after everything was final. Why?"

  "He's the man who assaulted Mr. Hoffman."

  Suddenly, three images came together in my head: the goon who slammed me up against the elevator doors at Aurora Development, the unconscious face of Jess's assailant, and, a lifetime ago, at a country club dance, the image of a man glaring at a beautiful redhead who held silver shoes in one hand and a glass of champagne in another.

  "That doesn't make any sense! Why would he be after Jess?"

  "Hey, the newspaper sometimes writes stories people don't like." Berrocco shrugged. "Tell me what happened."

  "I was ready to walk off my job. Jess was trying to stop me. This guy came up behind Jess and just swung."

  "Anything else?"

  I was silent for a moment. "Yes. I had one other run-in with the man you say is Grant Matthews. About six months ago, on a story." Briefly, I told him Elizabeth's story and my encounter with Matthews at the Aurora Devel
opment office, how he was the head goon in charge of collecting rents for Marian James and Lovey McNair. Finally, I told him about Marian's relationship to Kay, her offer of stock in Aurora Development following the major's death, and how the Journal-Gazette got hold of the documents for today's story.

  "What was your relationship to Marian James?"

  "She hated me. She couldn't stand it that I was seeing her daughter."

  "This may seem a little bit far-fetched, but is it possible that Grant Matthews’ attack on Mr. Hoffman was a hit meant for you?"

  Oh, God. I thought of the brick through Kay's living room window, and the room began to swim. No wonder she didn't want to tell the police! I lay my head down on the table, wanting to vomit.

  "Mr. Henning, if Mr. Hoffman dies, Matthews could be looking at murder charges. These two old ladies you're telling me about could be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Will you come down to the station and ID this guy? It sounds like we've got enough to keep the prosecuting attorney busy on this one for quite a while."

  Why was this happening? Why did Matthews even have a job with Aurora Development, considering that he beat the hell out of the owner's daughter? Why would she reward him? Why didn't it make any sense?

  At the station, Berrocco showed me into a small room with a one-way mirror, where we could observe Matthews being interrogated by two plainclothes detectives. Still handcuffed, Matthews was trying to sign a piece of paper in front of him. Once he had, the two detectives stepped out of the room. Looking around his surroundings like a caged baboon, he raised his handcuffed wrists to scratch his face. The black hair on the back of his knuckles triggered memories of me meeting the Aurora Development elevator doors up close and personal.

  "That's our suspect, Mr. Henning. Can you identify him?"

  Before I could answer, one of the plainclothes cops stuck his head in the door.

  "Hey, Mike, this guy has just confessed to everything, and it's one hell of a story. ‘Course, his lawyer is on the phone screaming duress, but you know how that goes." The cop shrugged.

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah. He says it was a hit, meant for another guy. Claims two little old ladies wanted it done."

  "Who?" I whirled around.

  "Who's this?" The cop jabbed his thumb in my direction.

  "I'm the other guy."

  Berrocco nodded.

  "The suspect claims it was two women named Marian James and Lovey McNair, who ordered the hit because of a story you were doing. They both wanted you off, but one of them wanted to also make you stop seeing her daughter, this guy's ex-wife."

  I'm going to destroy her, I thought. So help me God, I'm going to ruin her. Nothing will stop me now.

  * * *

  This time, the big-city television stations wanted a piece of my story. Remote trucks from all three networks were right behind the two squad cars, as they pulled into the jail with Marian and Lovey. By that time, Martin Rathke was waiting to meet them there, along with some lacquer-haired TV news babe.

  Marian was horrified, twisting her wrists against the handcuffs and cowering against the side of the escorting policewoman as photographers and cameramen closed in.

  "Cower, you bitch," I hissed under my breath. "Cower and hope that I don't get hold of you before anyone else does."

  Only McNair held her head high, whispering to Rathke as he fell in step beside her.

  “Mrs. James, are you responsible for the condition of the apartments on East Grand?" The TV reporter stuck the microphone in Marian's face.

  Rathke jumped in front of his client and shoved the microphone away. "Mrs. James and Mrs. McNair have no comment, at this time."

  "Are you aware—" the reporter shoved her microphone at Marian again.

  "I said no comment!" Rathke shoved her, knocking her against her cameraman and onto the hard cement. Rathke grabbed Marian by one arm, McNair by the other, and swept into the jail.

  The reporter got up, dusted off her very attractive behind, and looked straight into the camera. "Did you get that Gordon? Are we rolling? Okay," she launched into her script. "There you have it ladies and gentlemen. Two of Jubilant Falls’ best-known philanthropists, charged with contempt of court for allegedly ignoring a court order and who police are now saying are responsible…"

  I turned away in disgust. Jess was right. I didn't have the guts for this business.

  Chapter 9 Marian

  Ellen Nussey was at the house when I was arrested.

  I was standing before the mirror in the foyer, adjusting my scarf when the bell rang, ready to drive to one of the Cincinnati malls for a day of shopping, a little reward for myself.

  Despite a terrible scene with Kay over our investment property, she was seeing the stock gift for what it was: security for her and her children. I felt calmed and self-possessed all day, thinking how wonderful my plan had been working. I was protecting everyone's interests and providing for my daughter's financial stability.

  Kay had said that that awful Marcus Henning was threatening to do a story exposing everything, but I didn’t see anything. Come to think of it, I didn’t see the newspaper yesterday afternoon at all.

  "Novella, did we get a newspaper yesterday?"

  The door chimes sounded before she could answer, their sonorous tones echoing around me.

  "Novella, the door, please." I searched through the bottom of my handbag for a lipstick.

  Novella appeared from the dining room, her feather duster tucked under her arm. She glared at me, as she opened the wide, front door.

  "Mrs. James, Mrs. Nussey is here to see you."

  I turned around again.

  "Marian, I do hope you don't mind this intrusion." Ellen blew gracefully through my door, her gauzy skirt flowing behind her and her thoroughbred smile pasted perfectly in place. A heavy turquoise necklace lay on her artificially browned neck. "I was just in the neighborhood, and I simply couldn't pass by your house without telling you I don't think I can make it to card club next Tuesday."

  Ellen fingered the turquoise stones, as if to call my attention to them. Ellen's ludicrous presumption of some kind of California casual lifestyle here in Ohio turned my stomach.

  "It's not anything serious, is it?" I feigned concern. Most likely it was Ellen's youngest brat, Jameson. Nearly as old as Kay, he was still living at home, at least when he was sober. Jamie, as Ellen cloyingly referred to him, was always doing some sort of damage, to himself or his parents' property, or other peoples’ property. He had been in and out of detox units all his life. I was convinced it was Ellen's inability to control her son; she claimed he had a chemical imbalance.

  "No, heaven's no.” Ellen smiled insipidly. "Jamie is bringing his children home for a short visit. Since he's been sober, the courts are allowing supervised visitation again. We just got word today."

  Wonderful. The drug-abusing hoodlum bringing home his little bastards from the last slut he lived with outside of marriage, I thought. Let's have a celebration.

  "Have you found someone to replace you?" I snapped the clasp on my purse. I didn't need to hear anymore about this illustrious brat. "We can't play without a fourth."

  "Well, I was wondering if you knew anyone? Maybe Kay?"

  "Kay doesn't play bridge."

  Ellen's gaze wandered to the living room window. "Why, there's a police car pulling up your drive!"

  "What? I wonder what's going on?" Two policemen stepped from the squad car and headed up the walk. "What could they want?"

  "You know, it's funny how things run through your head at times like this, isn't it?" Ellen began to babble in fear, fingering the turquoise necklace nervously. "I was just thinking, ‘What could that boy have done now?’ But, of course, no one knows where I am. So the police couldn't know to come looking for me here, unless they were looking for my car and—"

  The doorbell rang again, cutting her short.

  "Novella!"

  "No, no, I'm closer." E
llen jumped for the doorknob. "It probably really is about Jamie, anyway. Oh, I had such hopes of seeing my grandchildren today. Yes?"

  Two policemen, one tall and lanky, the other squat and muscular, stood side by side on the stoop. "Mrs. Marian James?" The tall policeman asked, his Adam's apple bobbing.

  Ellen sighed, visibly. "Oh my, no, I'm not Mrs. James. Please come in. I do hope it's nothing serious. Marian?"

  My stomach sank to my feet, and my hands went numb. They've found you. After all these years, you've been hunted down like the demon you are, and they've found you. I straightened my shoulders and held my head high. "Yes, officers? What can I help you with?"

  "Are you Marian James?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Ma'am, we have a warrant for your arrest."

  "What?"

  "Yes ma'am. You've been charged with conspiracy in the attempted murder of Jesse Foster Hoffman."

  Jesse Hoffman? The editor of the newspaper? My mind reeled with the impossibility of it. The voices always said they would find me. I have done terrible things, awful frightful things that would ruin everything I have ever worked so hard for. I deserved to be sent away forever for that.

  But Jess Hoffman?

  "You must be joking." Ellen's nervous laugh echoed through the entryway. "Mrs. James isn't a murderer, much less a conspirator. This must be some sick joke."

  "No mistake, ma'am. The editor of the Journal-Gazette was assaulted in the newsroom early this morning, and the suspect in question fingered Mrs. James in the plan."

  "I didn't, couldn't kill Jess Hoffman!" I stammered. "I killed—" then stopped.

  It struck me: the confrontation with Lovey before Christmas. Lovey's plan to get Marcus Henning had not been called off. I needed to see Martin Rathke. Martin could fix this. Martin had gotten me out of scrapes before, quietly, and usually with a minimum of cash. This would certainly take more, but I had to protect my secret. If only Montgomery was still alive, none of this would ever have happened.

  “Ma’am, if you’ll cooperate with us, we’ll let you walk to the squad car without cuffs.“

  “I certainly will not!” I stood straighter and looked the flatfoot right in the eye. “I don’t know you, young man, but I know your boss, and he certainly would not allow this gross miscarriage of justice to be perpetrated on someone of my standing in the community.”