None So Deadly Read online

  “When was that?”

  Trenton thought briefly before answering. “I would say maybe 1990 or ’91.” He thought some more. “It must have been ’91. Anyway, the guy I had working for me was a young guy and he quit and went back to school. The next time I came to do the lawn care, Claiborne asked me if I’d like to work for him full-time. Of course, the yard and garden wasn’t enough for full-time work, but he had other things he wanted me to do. A little chauffeur work, some minor home maintenance, and the odd time he’d ask me to help out serving the guests when he was entertaining. Eventually, the stuff in the house became the main part of the job, but I still looked after some of the other duties as needed.”

  “The stuff in the house,” Cobb repeated.

  Trenton nodded. “I was something of an in-the-house servant. Did all the cooking — something I’m quite good at — served the meals, continued to look after the guests when the Claibornes entertained … sort of a combined butler, valet. It was a pretty good job and Claiborne paid me well.”

  I asked, “Did you live in the house?”

  Trenton turned easily to me. “It was pretty much the same arrangement I have now with Ms. Hainsey … Susannah.” A small smile. “I had a bedroom upstairs that I used on evenings when I worked late or if there was any kind of function. The rest of the time I came here. I’ve lived here for thirty-one years.”

  “It’s a very nice place,” I told him.

  Another smile. “I was fortunate to buy it when I did. I certainly couldn’t afford it now. Anyway, I like it.”

  “The landscaping business — was that before or after you had a few … brushes with the law?”

  “Ah, you’ve done your homework. Good. It was after. And to head off your next question, I no longer have any ties or even contact with the people I associated with then. I’ve had a couple of parking tickets and one speeding violation in the last twelve, maybe fifteen years. As your research no doubt indicated.”

  I was trying to decide if I liked Trenton. There was a hint of something, almost a catch-me-if-you-can arrogance to the guy, but he wasn’t unlikeable.

  “Thank you,” Cobb said. “We understand that you were somewhat enamoured of Susannah Hainsey when she lived with Claiborne.”

  His smile evaporated, but what replaced it wasn’t nasty or unpleasant. “You have done your research.” Trenton paused, then nodded slightly. “And, yes, I think that’s a fair way of putting it. Susannah was a wonderful woman and always very kind to me. If she had not been with Claiborne, I would have loved to get to know her on another level. But she was, and I didn’t.”

  “How did you feel about Claiborne being with someone you had feelings for?”

  Another long pause. “It didn’t bother me as much as you might think. They were a couple and I was their employee. I tried to perform my duties in as professional a manner as possible.”

  “Did she know how you felt about her?”

  “If she did we never talked about it.”

  “Did he?”

  “No, I’m quite certain of that.”

  “And how did you feel when he broke things off with her and she moved out?”

  No pause or hesitation. “I was angry. I felt that he had treated her badly. She was a woman who deserved to be treated well by the man in her life. He was not good to her; he was disrespectful. I didn’t like that.”

  “Disrespectful in what way?”

  “It is one thing to be a philanderer. It is quite another to flaunt the other women in your very active life to the woman you’re with. Even if she’s not your wife.”

  “And when he ended it with her?”

  “I wasn’t working for him by that time. But when I learned he’d thrown her out, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all.”

  “Thrown her out?”

  “A figure of speech, Mr. Cobb. When he broke things off with her was I think how you put it; let’s go with that. How are your drinks? Another?”

  Cobb shook his head. “The drinks are fine. And no, just the one for me.” They both looked in my direction. I shook my head.

  “I want to go back to Claiborne’s unfaithfulness.”

  “As I said, he didn’t try very hard to hide it. I think his attitude was this is who I am and what I’m about, and if you don’t like it, here’s some money; I’ll see you around.”

  “When Ms. Hainsey left … was asked to leave, did you say anything to Claiborne?”

  “No. Once he let me go I didn’t see him but for one or two times at functions. I never spoke to him about Susannah or anything else.”

  “How long before the breakup with Ms. Hainsey were you dismissed?”

  “A few months.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Claiborne was generous, I’ll say that. I had enough money in my severance settlement that I could travel for a time. I went to Europe, then Asia — saw some of the world. When I got back here, I thought about getting back into the landscaping thing, but I ran into Susannah — Ms. Hainsey — and we had coffee a couple of times. She offered me a job doing a lot of the same things I’d done when she was with Claiborne.”

  “And you accepted?”

  “To be totally honest, I was more interested in dating her … maybe having a relationship. But she made it clear that wasn’t in the cards — she did it very nicely, but left no doubt. Once I was okay with that, the job seemed like a pretty good alternative.”

  “You weren’t okay with it right away?”

  Trenton looked away for a minute before answering. “I cared very much for Susannah. So it took a while to get to a different level with her.”

  “And that level’s never changed?”

  “You’re wondering if the boss and the hired man get it on from time to time?”

  “Something like that.”

  He shook his head. “No. Never. And now that would feel pretty weird.”

  “Where were you the night Claiborne was killed?”

  I recognized Cobb’s strategy. Throw in the hard-hitting question when it’s somewhat unexpected — see what reaction you get. We got almost none.

  “I stayed over at my employer’s home that night.”

  “Ms. Hainsey’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go out at all that night, before or after Ms. Hainsey went to bed?”

  “No.”

  “Can she verify that?”

  “I expect she can. Although I must say that after she’s gone to bed, I should think I could leave without her knowing. I realize in telling you that, I may be hurting myself, but I’m sure you could figure that out anyway.”

  “What time does Ms. Hainsey generally retire for the night?”

  “Not usually before midnight. I’d say most often between midnight and one.”

  “And the night Claiborne was killed?”

  “As near as I can recall, she followed her established pattern. She likes to watch the news, generally runs a bath about midnight, and is in bed most nights around one or a little before.”

  Cobb leaned forward. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Wendell Claiborne?”

  Trenton looked at Cobb for a while, chewing on his bottom lip. “I suppose one could look at exes — both those he married and those he didn’t. And I understand there were husbands in some cases, so that might have created some motivation. But beyond that I really don’t have any ideas that would be of much help.”

  “Business associates — you get to know any of them?”

  “Not really. People came to the house, of course, for dinners and cocktail parties. But the hired help doesn’t really mingle and chat with the A-listers at these things.”

  Cobb looked at me before saying, “We noted that Ms. Hainsey has a bit of a temper. Any chance, in your mind, that she might have lost it with Claiborne?”

  “And shot him? Christ, no. Not a chance. Besides, as I’ve told you, I was there that night. I never went out and neither did she.”

  “Meani
ng that each of you can provide an alibi for the other.”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way.”

  “Just one last thing,” I said. “In your time at odds with the legal authorities, did you ever have any dealings with the MFs?”

  “The motorcycle gang?” He thought for a long moment. “No, not dealings. I might have met the leader, I can’t think of his name right now, and, of course, he wasn’t the leader back then, but I think I may have met him once or twice. Didn’t like him.”

  “Rock Scubberd,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s him.” Trenton nodded. “You’re not thinking there’s an organized crime element to Claiborne’s being shot?”

  I shook my head. “No, just curious if you knew each other.”

  Trenton looked puzzled.

  I glanced at Cobb, who looked equally puzzled. I shook my head to let him know I had nothing else. He stood up and I followed suit.

  We shook hands at the door and Trenton looked as relaxed as he had when we’d arrived. He was either a guy with nothing to hide or a very good actor.

  When we were on the road out of Bragg Creek, heading back toward Calgary, Cobb said, “You want to tell me what that was about?”

  “The Scubberd thing? I’m not sure. It’s like I told him, I was curious.”

  “You’re getting better at the bad cop thing all the time.”

  “My true calling, I guess. To be honest, he doesn’t look like the guy to me. You?”

  “Hard to say. The alibi would be hard to break down in any case. I say we move him to the back burner for now. Maybe come back to him later if we need to.”

  “Why doesn’t it feel like we’re making progress?” I said.

  “When have we ever worked a case together when it felt this early on like we were making progress?”

  “Good point. So, what’s next?”

  “I’m going to see if I can get a look at the homicide report. Either the Lufts’ lawyer or one of my few remaining contacts in the police service ought to be able to get me a look. How about I call you when I have it and we take a peek together. In the meantime —”

  I held up a hand. “I know. The life and times of Wendell Claiborne.”

  “I think we might be narrowing our focus a little too much if we only look at wives and girlfriends. I wouldn’t mind a list of the husbands of women Claiborne had relationships with.”

  “You might be right. I’m on it.”

  We were quiet the rest of the way back to his office, where I’d left my car. Cobb’s hands-free announced an incoming call. It was his wife, Lindsay. I used sign language to let him know he could drop me in front of the building so he could get on his way home a little quicker.

  I got out of the Cherokee and waved as he pulled away from the curb. I glanced at my watch, pulled out my phone, and called Jill.

  She was out of breath when she came on the line. “Hi, babe. Love you.”

  “I love you, too. You been working out?”

  “Uh-uh. Just ran up from downstairs. Laundry. Forgot the phone up here. How’s your day so far?”

  “Cobb and I are just back from Bragg Creek. We were talking to someone involved in the Danny Luft case.”

  “Okay; will you have to have it all solved by March fifteenth?”

  “And that’s because?”

  “I won us a trip to Vegas.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. Well, okay, I didn’t win the whole trip. There was this promotion with one of the companies I do books for — you put your name in and there’s a draw. The winner gets four days and three nights at New York–New York and a two-hundred-dollar voucher for meals and gambling and stuff. And guess who won it.”

  “Wow. I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

  “And I just checked out flights and WestJet has a really good deal if we go around the fifteenth of March.”

  “I’m all in,” I told her.

  “Gotta run. I’m trying to get done before some cop show Kyla wants us to watch. Hope it’s not too gory. That stuff bothers me.”

  “Me too. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Love you.”

  “Well, if I didn’t love you before, I damn sure do now.”

  “There better be an LOL with that. Bye.”

  I hung up and headed for the car, a little more spring in my step and “Viva Las Vegas” playing in my head. With evening darkness settling around me, I beeped the doors unlocked and was reaching for the handle when I felt a weight hit me hard from behind and shove me up against the car. I tried to move but that wasn’t happening. Whoever it was back there, he was strong.

  “Wallet back left pants pocket,” I rasped. “No need to get nasty here. I stay right where I am until you’re gone.”

  “Shut up, Scribe. The package and instructions are on the front seat of the car. This is just a little reminder of what happens if you decide you’re not a team player. You with me on this?”

  He bent my arm in a direction arms don’t normally go and I managed to say, “Yeah, I’m with you.”

  He gave a final shove and my face hit the top of the Accord. I stepped back and turned around. He was already walking away, gave a disdainful little wave without looking back at me.

  Minnis.

  EIGHT

  I was sitting in the recliner in the living room of my apartment, looking out over the evening lights of Bridgeland and the rest of the city in the distance.

  I was on my third Rolling Rock. My phone was sitting beside me but I hadn’t called anyone. I wasn’t about to. And I wouldn’t be answering if someone called me.

  I’d completed the assignment I’d been given by the MFs. I’d smuggled something into the U.S., met a guy at the Bin 119 restaurant in downtown Billings, Montana, a pretty cool restaurant if I’d been there with anybody but Truck McWhorters and if I’d been there for any other reason than to deliver a package that originated with the MFs.

  When Minnis had finished roughing me up in the parking lot behind Cobb’s office, I got into the Accord and sat for a long while before looking at the package and the note that sat on the passenger seat. I pulled out of the lot and drove to a well-lit area on 17th Avenue and parked again so I could read my instructions.

  They were simple. Deliver the package to the Bin 119 within twenty-four hours. The note told me where to sit in the restaurant and to do that between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m. I would be contacted once I was in the restaurant. I would have to bring nothing back, which meant that the job was over once the package was in the hands of whoever I was meeting in Billings.

  Of course, the tricky part would be getting through the border with the package — I suspected it was drugs, but I wasn’t told and didn’t care. I was damn sure it was something illegal or I wouldn’t be the one making the delivery. The MFs must have assumed I had a valid passport and it crossed my mind to tell them I didn’t, but I abandoned that idea. I wanted it over, still hopeful that this might be the one thing I’d have to do for them to even the score for the twenty-five-thousand-dollar gift to the Let the Sunshine Inn.

  I didn’t get much sleep that night. I worked out what time I’d have to leave to get to Billings in time to deliver whatever it was I was carrying, then sat up rehearsing what I’d say as I crossed the border. A guy crossing the border by himself — I didn’t know if that raised alarm bells or not. If it did, and they searched the car, or worse, put the sniffer dogs to work, I was in big-time trouble. The MFs knew that and so did I.

  Where you headed?

  Billings.

  Reason for going there?

  Visiting a couple of friends down there.

  How long you going down for?

  Couple of days is all. Have to get back to work.

  Carrying any firearms?

  No, sir.

  More than ten thousand dollars cash?

  No, sir.

  Taking anything with you that will remain in the United States?

  No, sir.

&n
bsp; I knew it was absolutely possible that the package contained money or a firearm or both, although I was still leaning toward drugs. Not that it mattered. If I was caught crossing the border with any of them in my possession, it would be a long time before I’d be sitting in my condo looking out over the lights of Calgary.

  Whatever god smiles down on naive, stupid do-gooders was smiling down on me. The border crossing went without incident — there was a fairly long lineup, which I thought might be in my favour. I’d brought along a few props. A Tim Hortons coffee and sandwich, a couple of country CDs — George Strait and Alan Jackson. Michael Connelly’s latest Bosch novel sat on the passenger side of the front seat. Just an ordinary guy heading down to the States for a couple of days of R and R.

  I hoped the guard would just want to get through the line and would move me through without a whole lot of care and attention. And that’s about what happened; in fact, it wasn’t very different from my rehearsed version. When I got to Shelby, the first town of consequence on the I-15 heading south, I stopped at the Oasis Bar for a rye and diet. I was the only customer and I was pretty sure I was the first that day, as the place had only been open about twenty minutes when I dropped in. I ordered a second drink but changed my mind and didn’t drink it, reasoning that a casual stop by a cop could become a big deal if I showed even minimal signs of having been drinking.

  I travelled the speed limit all the way to Billings, not a hardship on the I-15 where the limit is eighty miles per hour. It got slower once I was off the interstate, but I complied there, too. I stopped only once more after the border — for fuel and a to-go sandwich in Great Falls — and nine and a half hours after I left my apartment, I was parked on 28th Street North in Billings, across from the Bin 119. It was just after seven.

  I sat in the Accord for a while watching the place, but didn’t see anyone go in or out that I figured might be the person I was meeting. The Bin 119 wasn’t some seedy dump — in fact, it looked pretty upscale and hip, a place I’d have liked to take Jill sometime, under different circumstances.

  At seven thirty I climbed out of the car, my package carefully in hand, and crossed the street. The restaurant was fairly busy, but there was no one in the corner of the place I’d been told to sit. I slid into a booth and set the package on the seat next to me.