No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  “Good idea.” I pulled up a map of Coos Bay–North Bend on my computer and showed him where Sloat Trucking was located. “Hit the bars and eateries in and around this area,” I suggested.

  After Nando left, Archie was bugging me for a jog, so I took him down the weathered staircase to the beach. Although the day was clear and the lighthouse on Cape Arago shown brilliant white in the sunlight, I zipped up my jacket against a stiff breeze that threatened to kick up whitecaps. But the plovers were out foraging breakfast in the wet sand, so I clipped a leash on Archie before heading off towards the Cape. We hadn’t gotten far when I heard someone call out.

  I turned around and saw a man waving from the deck of our place. I headed back, and after closing half the distance, realized it was Walter Sanders. I was glad he showed up, because with both Claire and Nando gone I was without a car. But it still irritated me that he’d come to the beach house again without being invited.

  “I’ll say it again, one of the best views on the coast,” Walter said as I neared the top of the stairs, his gap-toothed smile in full bloom, his Ray Bans gleaming in the sun. Archie had gone ahead and stood on the deck, looking at our guest with his head cocked in canine scrutiny. Obviously no lover of dogs, Walter acted as if Archie were invisible, a gesture not lost on my dog. “Hope you don’t mind my popping by again, Cal. I was out this way and figured why not?”

  I gestured at one of the deck chairs, and when he sat I took a seat beside him. He would get no coffee this time. “What’s on your mind, Walter?”

  “How are you and your daughter? I heard you had a terrible accident on the Umpqua Highway.”

  “We’re both fine.”

  He glanced at Archie for the first time. “Was the mutt with you?”

  I nodded, biting back a caustic comeback. “We’re all fine, except for my car.”

  “Good, good.” He shook his head and put his Ray Bans in his shirt pocket. “Those damn truckers are a menace on the highway. Look, Cal,” he continued, making eye contact, “you know why I’m here. I want to help out Aurora and Kenny. The kid carries my name, for Christ’s sake. Over the years, I, ah, I don’t know…I’ve come to believe he didn’t do it.”

  “I appreciate that, but I don’t need to tell you Rori’s a proud woman. You need to give her a little more time. Maybe she’ll come around.”

  “Why can’t I just pay you directly? You can take it off her bill.”

  “Something like that needs to be transparent. Let’s give it some more time.”

  He sucked a tooth and nodded. “Okay, okay. How’s the case coming?”

  “Slow but sure. We’ve pretty much ruled out a robbery gone bad,” I lied.

  His eyes registered surprise. “How have you done that?”

  “Investigative work.” He leaned in, waiting for me to elaborate. Instead, I said, “This suggests Sonny Jenson was killed by somebody he knew, somebody with a good reason.”

  “Really? Sonny didn’t have any enemies, you know.”

  By this time, Archie was lying down facing Walter. His ears were up, his big, coppery eyes on our guest. “Around the time of his death,” I continued, “did you and Sonny agree on the direction of Condor Enterprises?”

  He looked at me, his face suddenly wary, but his eyes never quite met mine. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just trying to fill in the big picture.”

  “Well, we had our differences, but nothing major.”

  “But after his death, you steered the company in a very different direction. Would Sonny have agreed to that?”

  “We moved in that direction after he was gone. So, the question’s moot.”

  “I see. He was an outspoken opponent of the LNG project. Would he have agreed to the land speculation deal you engineered?”

  A sarcastic laugh. “You make it sound nefarious. You’ve been listening to Rori too much. It was smart business based on a lot of due diligence. Like everybody, Sonny had his price. When he saw what we stood to make on that deal, he came around.”

  “Oh, so he agreed to it? When was that?”

  “Right before his death.”

  “You must have needed a lot of cash to pull that off. Did you take on a new equity partner?”

  His face hardened, and the muscles along his jawline flexed. “We financed some of it, and my business associates are none of your business. Look, Cal, I suppose you have to ask these questions, and I’m answering as best I can, but I draw the line at my business affairs.”

  “Your equity partner, if you have one, is a person of interest, Walter.”

  He glanced at his watch and got up. “I’ve got to run.”

  I walked Walter to the front door. Normally the perfect gentleman, Archie didn’t bother to join us. He knew where he stood with Walter Sanders. “Uh, one other question,” I said as he started down the steps. “We have information that suggests Sonny was having an affair with someone. Do you know anything about that?”

  He’d just put on his Ray Bans, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but his jawline flexed again before he produced a smile that fell well short of full wattage. “Sonny Jenson was having an affair? Mr. Upstanding Citizen? I wouldn’t know anything about that, Cal.” He turned and got into his Land Rover. “The offer to help’s still on the table,” he called out before pulling out.

  I watched him drive away. Did he know about the affair between Sonny and his own wife? I wasn’t sure, although the inability to hide the sarcasm was telling.

  I joined Arch back on the deck. “Whataya think, Big Boy? Was Sonny Jenson a holdout on the LNG deal like Twila said, or did he cave like Walter just told me?” My dog sat up, giving me his full attention. “And why doesn’t Walter want me to know about Max Sloat?”

  Archie listened politely, then whimpered a couple of times. I laughed. “Okay, I haven’t forgotten. I still owe you a run on the beach.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I cleared the phone messages from my Dundee office, moved a court date at the McMinnville County Courthouse, and had just finished up a semi-contentious call with Gertie Johnson when Claire breezed in.

  “How’d it go with Stu Foster?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Probably a bust. But he’s a nice kid. Going to community college, knows a lot about environmental issues.” She smiled with a tinge of embarrassment. “He came on pretty strong, too.”

  I laughed. “What? His main interest was you, not the case? That’s a shocker.”

  “Something like that. I played it straight with him, had him go back over everything he could remember about the time leading up to Sonny’s death. That didn’t produce anything of interest until we got to Walter Sanders.” She drew her face into a look of disgust. “Probably more salacious than useful—but he told me Walter was—”

  My phone interrupted us. I didn’t recognize the caller, but Claire paused, nodding for me to take it.

  “Cal? This is Anthony, you know, Rori’s barista. Um, she asked me to call you. She’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested? Where is she?”

  “Handcuffed to a Bexar Energy limo in front of City Hall. Can you come?”

  * * *

  We were there in seventeen minutes. While Claire parked the car, I worked my way through a gathered crowd and spotted Rori sitting in the back seat of a squad car with the windows up. Anthony stood behind the car looking distraught. I nodded to him, then told a uniformed officer, who had one foot propped on the bumper, that I was Rori’s lawyer. He agreed to roll the window down so I could speak to her.

  “What’s going on, Rori?”

  Wearing a T-shirt that said No Dinosaur Farts in Coos Bay across the front, she pushed a length of magenta hair off her forehead with both hands, which were manacled together. “You missed all the fun, Cal. Bexar Energy’s meeting with the City Council today. We were picketing, then I decided to attach mys
elf to one of their limos.”

  “Why?”

  “Publicity. The bastards are trying to fly under the radar.”

  “How did you, uh, attach yourself?”

  “I bought some handcuffs at one of Walter’s sex shops. The rest was easy. Took the cops a while to unhook me.” She laughed, a gleeful bark. “Walter sells pretty high-quality stuff.”

  “Listen, Rori, I—”

  “Jesus Christ, Rori, what the hell were you thinking?” a voice boomed from behind me.

  I turned to face a man wearing a police uniform and a badge with “Chief” embossed in blue letters on it. Rori peered out at him. “Hello, Maynard. I’m just trying to let people know what’s going on in their fair city.” She flashed a smile. “The Coos Bay World got some nice photos and even interviewed me before your guys arrived with the bolt cutters. I want people to think about the LNG project, not just let it happen.”

  “Well, goddamnit, this is no way to get people to think.”

  “Oh, really?” Rori countered. “Ever hear of civil disobedience? It’s about the only tool we have left, Maynard. And what are you going to charge me with, anyway—felony limo attaching?”

  I stifled a laugh, and when the police chief swung his glare to me, introduced myself. He shook his head and said to both of us, “I convinced Bexar not to press charges.” He turned to the officer next to the patrol car. “Cut her loose, Jimmy.” Then he looked back at Rori. “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  I joined up with Claire, who was disappointed she missed all the fun. We gave Anthony and Rori a ride to Coffee and Subversion and sat in the back of the coffee bar while a throng of protestors relived the encounter and hailed Rori—who sported a skinned elbow and a bruise on her cheek—as their fearless leader. Apparently, she hadn’t told anyone about her plan with the handcuffs, and a timely call placed by Anthony made sure a reporter was there to catch the whole drama.

  As the last of the group drifted out, Nando called, and I gave him directions to the shop. When he arrived, I introduced him to Rori, and we gathered in her office, leaving Anthony to mind the front.

  “God, I need a drink,” Rori said, producing four glasses and a bottle of Maker’s Mark from her desk. After pouring us each a generous amount, she raised her glass. “To Kenny,” she said, as her eyes opened up like a couple of floodgates. She sighed, swiped the tears from her cheeks with the fingers of both hands, and sniffed. “Sorry. I’m a little emotional at the moment.” She looked at me. “Are we making any progress, Cal?”

  I brought her up to date on my discussion with Twila Jenson. “So, in addition to the possibility that Walter knew of his wife’s infidelity,” I said in conclusion, “Sonny stood in the way of the LNG deal that Walter had cooked up. At least, that’s what Twila Jenson told me.”

  “A double whammy,” Nando quipped.

  Claire said, “Last night I went back over all of Condor’s real estate transactions I could find during that time. It looks like they bought at least three million dollars’ worth of land and resold it to Bexar for better than eight million a couple of years later.”

  Rori smirked. “Financial gain would be one hell of a motive for Walter. I wish to hell I’d known that was his intention at the time.”

  I nodded. “Max Sloat invested in Condor after Sonny’s death, but she could’ve already been secretly working with Walter Sanders.”

  “That would give her the same financial motive to get rid of Sonny,” Nando added.

  “Right. And this is where Howard Coleman’s murder might come in—Sissy Anderson thinks one of his killers could be driving for Sloat Trucking.” I looked at Rori. “Sissy doesn’t want anyone to know she’s cooperating with us, so don’t share that.” Then I turned to Nando. “Any luck tracking down our truck driver?”

  “Perhaps. At a little bar on Robeson Road, a couple of miles north of the truck yard, a waitress told me of a man who drives a Ford Explorer and occasionally a dark colored Peterbilt cab like the one we’re looking for. A regular customer, at least he was until the last week or so, pays with cash, no credit cards, tall with graying hair and tattoos from his fingertips to his armpits.”

  “Robert’s brother?” I said.

  “Yes, I am thinking the same thing. The description is not inconsistent with the man Claire saw, but this man is probably older, judging by his graying hair.”

  “Okay, so Robert’s the younger brother. Sounds like the older brother might be lying low after the attack on us. Since he frequents a bar not far from Sloat Trucking, it’s likely he’s the brother driving for Sloat. Anything else?”

  “Yes, the waitress, Joyce, has my business card and has promised to call me if this man reappears.”

  “Excellent.” I looked at Rori. “It turns out Walter has a skeleton in his closet.” Gesturing toward Claire, I said, “Tell them what you just told me about your meeting this morning.”

  “I had coffee with a guy named Stu Foster, Kenny’s best friend at the time.”

  “I know Stuart,” Rori said. “He was one of my favorites.”

  “Well, he told me Walter was, um, seeing a sixteen-year-old girl at the time of the murder.”

  “Oh, God. That sounds like something Walter would do.” Rori said, her face flushed with revulsion. “No wonder Krysta decided to have an affair. What’s her name?”

  Claire glanced at me, and I nodded the go-ahead. “Kathy Harper,” she said. “I’m going to see if she’ll talk to me about the period leading up to the murder.”

  Rori shook her head, her look morphing into bewilderment. “She was a cheerleader at Marshfield High. A year behind Kenny, I think. Just a beautiful young kid. Did Kenny know about this?”

  “No,” Claire answered. “Stu said this didn’t come out until after Kenny went to prison.”

  Rori shook her head again. “Kathy Harper. Maybe she’ll have a Me-Too moment.”

  I met Rori’s eyes. “This is hearsay. No leaks.”

  Rori lowered her eyes. “Of course.”

  The room fell silent, and Rori poured herself another shot of bourbon, downing it in one swallow. I said, “We’ve made progress—we have three potential suspects for Sonny’s murder—Walter Sanders, Maxine Sloat, and Twila Jenson. We also have a good lead on the two brothers responsible for killing Howard Coleman, a key witness in Kenny’s trial.”

  “These two will lead us back to Sonny’s killer,” Nando said. “Howard Coleman was killed to shut him up.”

  “That’s our best theory, but there’s no guarantee it’s right. Right now, all we have are motives and suspicions. What we need, what we must have, is hard evidence.”

  “Like what?” Rori asked.

  I shrugged. “Oh, the murder weapon with a print on it would be nice,” I said in jest. “The forensic evidence at the crime scene has been dealt with in the trial and appeals. We need something new, something incontrovertible.”

  That’s where we broke it off. As we filed out of the office, Rori said to me, “Cal, I’d be depressed as hell about our chances, but this is quite a team you’ve assembled. That daughter of yours is sharp as a tack, and Nando,”—she blew a breath for emphasis—“what an impressive man. Maybe I’m naive, but I feel hopeful right now.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Hope beats despair every time, Rori.”

  I told myself the same thing, knowing full well what a tough road lay ahead. Suspects and theories were one thing, but hard evidence after four years was quite another.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Am I still a suspect?” Twila Jenson said teasingly. It was the next morning, and I’d called to ask for some additional time to “clear up a couple of questions.”

  “Of course,” I said with mock seriousness, returning the tease. No reason to set her on edge.

  “I’m at my place on Seven Devils Road. This is a painti
ng day. We can chat here, if you don’t mind talking while I work.”

  “That’s fine with me.” I jotted down her address and told her I’d see her within the hour.

  The rest of Team Claxton was already on the move. Sissy Anderson had left a voice mail asking Claire to stop by her place, and as a precaution, we decided Nando should go with her. Before they left, Claire covered my stitches with a narrower, less obtrusive bandage that made me look less like a wounded warrior.

  I took Arch for a quick walk, then ushered him into the car. I wasn’t leaving him alone at the beach house, either. He hopped in with enthusiasm, despite my warning that he might have a long wait in the car. I took the Cape Arago Highway to Cottrell Lane, a narrow road that wound its way through an area—once thickly forested with Sitka spruce, western hemlock, and Douglas fir —that had been ruthlessly harvested, the leavings of the clear-cut stacked in huge piles like funeral pyres. I drove through the devastation, shaking off a feeling of anxiety at the thought of losing our virgin forests.

  At Seven Devils Road, I headed south until it became a dirt road ten miles later. After crossing a one-lane bridge over a narrow creek two miles in, I spotted Twila’s place. Painted dark green with a cupola promising a view of the sea, the two-story house stood alone on an isolated, wooded lot. A black Lincoln Navigator with heavily tinted windows was parked in front on a circular drive with an ornate birdbath in the center. Twila was at the side of the house, tending a bed of rambling nasturtiums that had yet to bloom.

  I let Archie out to stretch his legs, and when Twila saw him, he shamelessly worked his magic on her. “Oh, he’s so handsome,” she cooed after we exchanged greetings. “I love dogs. Bring him in, Cal.” Today her hair was wound in a careless bun, and she wore a pair of paint-spattered coveralls. She looked down at them in a self-deprecating way. “Excuse the outfit. I forget these are on half the time. I’m a messy painter.”