“I thought they were supposed to keep him away from Claiborne’s place.”
Cobb shook his head. “They were supposed to keep him away from Claiborne. They were across the street and ready to move if the kid had actually started up to the house. I’d told them I didn’t want them scaring the crap out of the kid for no reason, so they stayed back, which is exactly what they were supposed to do.”
“So, our client’s fingerprints are on the weapon, he’s got motive, they’ve got him and Claiborne in conversation about killing Mrs. Claiborne, and he was near the scene of the crime at the approximate time of the murder.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“I’d say Kemper’s right, then. Our client is in a very bad spot.”
“Now you got it.”
I slid my fairly pathetic notes across the table. It didn’t take Cobb long to read them. He folded the paper, stuck it in a jacket pocket, and stood up. “I’m going to wash my hands,” he said. “Then let’s go see Cindy. We need something to go right, and we need it soon.”
We thought we were at the wrong house. The address I had for Cindy Claiborne took us to a small bungalow on 21st Avenue NW, but the place was all wrong. I have nothing against small bungalows, but this place needed paint, the lawn hadn’t seen a mower in a long time, and the garage door looked like it had taken a significant hit and was incapable of movement up or down. Infills flanked the house, and you got the feeling that this Mrs. Claiborne’s place, if this was, in fact, the right house, would, like Janine Claiborne’s, soon be replaced by something bigger and nicer. Which it seemed to me wouldn’t be hard to accomplish. Almost any house would fit both those categories.
Cobb looked at me. He didn’t say it, but I knew he was thinking the same thing. And there was a part of me that hoped I was wrong. Because the person who lived in this house could not have been doing well.
Cobb pressed the doorbell and we heard a healthy ding-dong. I was hoping the inside of the house would be quaint and clean and that Cindy was just waiting for the exterior renovation company to arrive for a makeover. Hoping but not believing.
My fear that things would not get better when the door opened was quickly realized. A woman stood looking at us through the screen. She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, and to call her thin would have been a kindness. In fact, the body matched almost exactly the voice I had heard on the phone. Frail.
“Mrs. Cindy Claiborne?” I stepped forward when I saw her, thinking it would be best if she realized she was dealing with the guy she’d talked to on the telephone.
“I’m Cindy Claiborne.”
“I’m Adam Cullen, Mrs. Claiborne. This is my partner, Mike Cobb. I spoke to you on the telephone earlier today.”
“Of course. Please come inside.” She stood back and I stepped in ahead of Cobb, then waited for her to direct us where she wanted.
There weren’t a lot of options. She moved across in front of me and we proceeded to the right, into the living room. It was hard to describe and harder to take. It didn’t make sense that a woman who had once been married to one of Calgary’s wealthiest men and was rumoured to have been well taken care of when the marriage ended was living like this as she got older.
“Would you like to sit over there?” she pointed to a worn sofa that wouldn’t have been out of place in a re-mounting of Annie. There was a coffee table, same vintage, in front of the sofa, and on it were two glasses of water, one ice cube in each, and a plate of cookies.
“I read once that detectives are reluctant to accept beverages and things from people they are interviewing,” she said, a small smile brightening her pale features. “Maybe it has to do with being compromised in their investigation. I hope water is all right. And I made peanut butter cookies this afternoon. I hope you like them.”
“Peanut butter cookies are my favourite, ma’am,” said Cobb, “and the water is perfect, thank you.”
I smiled my thanks and we sipped our waters in unison. As we sat back on the sofa, Cobb nodded in my direction, handing me the lead, at least for the moment.
“As you know, Ms. Claiborne … is it all right to call you that, or do you prefer something else?”
“My first name is Cynthia, although I was most often called Cindy. I didn’t like that much. If you were to call me Cynthia, I think that would be fine.”
I nodded. “As you know, Cynthia, we’re looking at the murder of your ex-husband. We’re representing the young man, Danny Luft, who has been charged in connection with Wendell Claiborne’s death. I wanted you to know that in case you’re uncomfortable talking to us under those circumstances.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Please continue.”
“Our client indicated to us that Mr. Claiborne had approached him with a proposal that Danny shoot Mrs. Claiborne. Then together they would set things up to look like Mrs. Claiborne had disturbed a prowler and was killed. Do you find that shocking or unbelievable, Cynthia?”
She sat for a long moment before responding. While she thought, she seemed to be staring at a spot just over Cobb’s head. Finally, she refocused her gaze on me, shifted for a moment to Cobb, then back to me. Taking the time she needed. “Wendell was a man who was capable of a great many unpleasant things, as are most people who are completely lacking in empathy. I wouldn’t have predicted something like this, but having heard of it now, I cannot say I’m shocked or surprised.”
I thought about her answer. “Cynthia, I hope you won’t mind this question. But our understanding is that you received a generous settlement when you and Claiborne divorced. And …” I hesitated, not knowing exactly how I wanted to phrase the rest of the question. I didn’t have to.
“And as you look at me and my home and belongings, you’re wondering what happened to all that wealth.”
“Yes, ma’am, something like that, I guess.”
“I grew up in this house. My parents were middle-class people: my father worked for the CPR as a machinist; my mother worked part-time at a postal outlet just a few blocks from here. I was an only child. When I married Wendell, it was quite honestly a step up financially for the family, though that had nothing to do with my wanting to marry him. He was handsome and charming. In fact, and I know it sounds silly now, but I thought of him as my Prince Charming. I was twenty-nine, had not a lot of experience with men, and I found Wendell perfect.
“I was, of course, very foolish, but as I said, he was a charmer. One night we were hosting a small cocktail party, and partway through the evening Wendell sang ‘Some Enchanted Evening.’ He sang it to me. It was one of the most romantic moments I could imagine and it was my moment. You can see how a woman who had few previous boyfriends, and none that were serious, might have been quite taken with a man like Wendell.”
“Yes, I can,” Cobb said. I nodded my agreement.
Cynthia took a breath, exhaled and continued. “And he was, at first, generous, even offered to buy my parents a new house, but they were unpretentious people and loved their modest little home.
“When the marriage ended, there was a settlement, but it wasn’t nearly as bountiful as one might have expected. And he quite simply fooled me — some might say swindled. I’m not sure if that was the case — I’m not very knowledgeable about things financial. He set me up as a partner in a company he was starting. He swore it was a way for me to secure my financial future. The company was some kind of marketing/sales thing. And for a few months it really did look like Wendell had actually wanted to set me up to be, if not wealthy, at least comfortable. Then the company suffered some terrible reverses — now, there’s a phrase I’ll never forget. It was the one Wendell used over and over. By the end of the year, I was looking for a job that my psychology degree might have prepared me for. As you might guess, there aren’t a lot of those. I have been in retail, selling ladies’ wear, for the past twenty-one years. Three years ago my father passed away and Mom decided she wanted to move into a home. She offered to sell me the house, virtually gave it to me. And other tha
n a leaky roof, especially when the wind is blowing from the north during a hard rain, it really isn’t too bad. There are lovely memories of my parents in all the nooks and crannies.”
I looked at Cobb and saw intensity in his eyes that I’d seen before, usually just before someone was about to be the victim of his wrath. If Claiborne wasn’t already dead, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Cobb had gone straight to the man’s office and beat the crap out of him. And to be honest, I’d have been there cheering him on.
“Cynthia,” I said. “Did you shoot your husband?”
The smile that had begun to form when she spoke of her parents’ memories in the house grew broader now.
“A thousand times,” she said. “Oh, it wasn’t always shooting; I was a regular Agatha Christie. Sometimes I poisoned him, the odd time I suffocated him with a pillow, and one of my favourites was my idea to somehow smuggle a cougar into his bedroom and he’d wake up, startle the cougar, and … oh my, that would have been unpleasant.” She chuckled at that one.
“Remind me never to make you angry!” I laughed with her and picked up one of the cookies.
Then she turned serious. “But despite all that nastiness in my mind and even in my dreams, I’m saddened that he’s gone. I feel bad for his family and I even feel bad for Wendell. For all his cruelty, I didn’t want him dead, not really. And there was a cruelty to him — it’s barbarous and brutish to be married and carry on like he did; I actually first suspected him of cheating during our honeymoon. That, gentlemen, is cruelty. And yet I wish he wasn’t dead. And no, I didn’t kill him or even hire someone to do it for me — which, by the way, was another of my rather childish fantasies.”
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Wendell?” Cobb asked.
“I haven’t been part of his life for a very long time.”
“So, no thoughts at all?”
“Thoughts? Lots of them. I haven’t thought of much else since I heard. But ideas as to who might have done this — I would think there might be a number of people who had reasons. Wendell was, as I said, a nasty man.”
“Was there ever physical abuse?”
She shook her head emphatically. “Never. I will say that for him. He never laid a hand on me. Other abuse? I don’t know if that’s the term one uses for the knowledge that when he wasn’t home he was very likely in someone else’s bed. I can’t tell you how hard that is on one’s self-esteem. That’s the cruelty I referred to. But there was no physical abuse.”
“Have you seen Claiborne in recent years?”
“A couple of times. Briefly. He called me about a year ago and wanted to have coffee. I’m not sure why.”
“And did you meet him?”
“I did. It was very short. We had coffee and chatted about … not much. It was like he was checking up on me, to see if I was still alive and what I was doing. He lost interest rather quickly and left. A couple of days later, I received a cheque in the mail for two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” Cobb repeated.
One of the articles I had read on Claiborne stated that his salary as CEO of his firm was nine and a half million dollars. That was in 2015. And he had offered Cynthia Claiborne two hundred and fifty dollars.
“Asshole,” I said under my breath.
“Yes.” Cynthia Claiborne smiled, then added, “I didn’t cash it.”
Cobb looked at me and raised his eyebrows, wondering if I had anything else.
“Cynthia, we understand you’re writing a book about your life with Claiborne.”
“A memoir, yes. I’m quite close to the end of the first draft.”
“Put me down for a signed copy,” I told her, and a happy smile spread over features that didn’t look as if they’d had much to smile about in recent times.
Cobb said, “We really appreciate your time, Cynthia.”
She got to her feet. “I wish you gentlemen well in your undertaking. I truly hope that young man did not shoot Wendell.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Cobb said as we shook hands with her.
“And thank you for the cookie,” I said. “It reminded me of my mom’s peanut butter cookies.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She chuckled softly and patted the hand she’d been shaking.
“No, ma’am,” I told her. “I can honestly say you are the first person I have ever said that to.”
When Cobb and I were a few blocks away from Cynthia Claiborne’s house, he pulled the Jeep to the curb and fumbled for his phone. He dialed without talking to me, looking straight ahead, concentrating. “Cliffy? Cliffy St. Jerome? Mike Cobb here … Yeah, I’m good. Listen, Cliffy, you still in the roofing business? … Yeah, when you’re not in prison. You’re a funny guy. Anyway, I need a favour. There’s a house needs re-shingling. The bill comes to me and the lady who owns the house doesn’t need to know who’s paying for the job. You tell her you’re an instructor at SAIT — yeah, I know that’s a bit of a stretch, Cliffy, but I’m sure you can pull it off. You’re an instructor and you need a class project and noticed her roof needs re-shingling … Yeah, Cliffy, I’m serious. And I need this to happen as soon as possible. You get a crew together and call me. I’ll give you the address … Yeah … And about that crew, Cliffy, if anything goes missing from her house or if anything happens that I’m not happy with, like inferior materials, I think you know what will happen … Good, that’s what I like to hear. Call me, and like I said, I’d like this to happen soon … Yeah, Cliffy. We’ll talk. See ya.” He hung up the phone.
“You’re kidding, right? You’re going to get some felon that you probably know because you put the guy behind bars and you’re going to turn him and his pals loose on that sweet lady’s house?”
“Uh-huh. Cliffy’s been off the felon wagon for a couple of years. Does a few things — one of them’s roofing. He’s pretty good. And he also knows that if he or one of his crew should happen to screw up, I will pay him a visit. And he doesn’t want that.”
I looked at Cobb for a long minute. “It’s a damn decent thing you’re doing, it really is. But, you know, I read once that in the Old West the lawmen and the guys on the other side of the law were almost interchangeable. Rob a bank this week. Grab a badge and chase down some rustlers the next week. I’m wondering if anything’s changed.”
Cobb shrugged and started the Cherokee. “Let’s go chase down some rustlers.”
During the pleasant, one-coffee drive to Bragg Creek, Cobb and I, without coordinating a plan, decided to talk about anything that wasn’t related to crime and bad guys. We chatted mostly sports and kids, and forty-five minutes after leaving Cynthia Claiborne’s place, we were parking in front of Trenton’s house, a high-ceilinged log structure that would have been right at home on the front of a Christmas card. For the second time in a matter of a few hours, the house didn’t fit the occupant, or at least my clearly incorrect vision of that occupant.
Trenton was standing at the front door before we were out of the Cherokee.
“Gentlemen,” he said as we approached.
He stepped aside to let us enter. I looked around, taking in an open-beamed interior with a west-facing wall that was almost all window, offering a virtually unobstructed view of the Rockies. Nice pad. Expensive pad.
He pointed to a spacious leather sofa. Next to it was a table where he had laid out some snacks: crackers, a cheese ball, some small cocktail sausages. Very nice, but I was thinking I preferred Cynthia’s peanut butter cookies.
“Please make yourselves comfortable and please help yourselves to the crackers and cheese,” he said. “If you let me, I can promise you a world-class Caesar. I pride myself on my bartending skills and hope you might allow me to show off just a little.”
“You can show off for me,” I told him. “Unsalted, please.”
“And yourself?” Trenton turned to Cobb.
“A short one.”
Trenton busied himself at the bar mixing the drinks. It wasn’t o
ften, in fact, next to never, that people we were about to question viewed the occasion as a social event and rolled out the hospitality for us. And it had just happened twice in the last couple of hours.
I sat, but Cobb was on the move, checking out the room, examining the paintings — a lot of them — that populated the walls. I thought the room would have been perfect for western lifestyle decor — art, memorabilia, tack, lanterns, animal heads, and the like. But there was none of that. Instead it felt like an upscale art salon. I’m not an authority, but I did recognize a couple of pieces by a Saskatchewan artist I had long admired — Allen Sapp. I stood up and crossed the room for a closer look. I was right. Trenton owned what look like two original Sapp paintings. I wondered how much money he was being paid by Susannah Hainsey.
Trenton delivered the Caesars. He hadn’t lied. Mine was perfect. And it looked like Cobb felt the same way about his. We sat. I chose one of the leather chairs and Cobb opted for the sofa. We were far enough apart that while Trenton was responding to a question from one of us, the other could study his facial expressions and body language from another angle. I knew this was Cobb’s preference when it was possible to arrange it.
Cobb set his drink down on a stylish end table and pulled out his notebook and pen. Trenton’s eyes went to the notebook, then back to Cobb’s face. He appeared relaxed.
“Do you mind telling us about your time working for Wendell Claiborne?”
“Not at all. I was in the landscaping business. Had a little company of my own, only one guy working for me. A lot of the work was lawn and yard maintenance, some smaller landscaping and planting jobs. Claiborne had hired me for lawn maintenance. We went there once a week for one season, and near the end of the season he asked me if I could build a retaining wall near the back of the property. I told him I could, gave him a quote, and got the job. I built the wall with old railway ties I was able to scavenge. I was there every day for a week, maybe a little longer.”
None So Deadly Page 10
