None So Deadly

by David A. Poulsen

  Cobb nodded, drank some Diet Coke. I looked at Susannah’s martini. “Can we go back for a minute?” Cobb said. “I wanted to ask you about your first husband.”

  “Dennis? Yes?”

  “You mentioned that he was killed in an accident. Can you tell us what happened?”

  Again she didn’t answer right away. A small smile toyed with the corners of her lovely mouth. “Because if it wasn’t accidental, you just might be looking at a serial husband-killer, is that the thought here? Even if Wendell wasn’t technically my husband?”

  “Is that the thought you’d have if you were us?”

  She smiled at that and I decided that if I were casting a Helen of Troy remake, Susannah Hainsey would be a frontrunner to play Helen. This was a face that could launch a thousand ships. With the smile, maybe two thousand.

  “I don’t think I look like a killer,” she said. “And I know I don’t have the physical strength to murder someone.”

  “So, that rules out beating someone to death, and maybe stabbing. Neither of the gentlemen died of those causes. And, of course, there’s always the time-honoured practice of hiring someone to do the heavy lifting.”

  “True,” she said. “Then I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. I didn’t kill my husband and I didn’t shoot Wendell Claiborne. And I didn’t arrange for a hit man. That’s a very sexist term, don’t you think? I’m sure there are women who kill for money. Hit person perhaps?”

  “When did you find out about Claiborne’s death?”

  She took a moment before answering. “My sister called. It was early, six thirty or so. Trenton took the call, and woke me.”

  “Trenton lives here?”

  “Not all the time. He has his own room, and if I’m going to need him early or if he has had to work late, he will often stay. He lives a forty-five-minute drive away, over an hour in rush-hour traffic.”

  “Trenton’s role in your life?”

  “He works for me … in several capacities, some of them domestic. Neither of us likes the term servant, so let’s leave it at that. Anyway, he woke me, I took the call. Janine told me the news and I went back to bed.”

  Cobb didn’t have a response for that.

  “Sounds callous, doesn’t it? Please don’t think I wasn’t affected by hearing a man I had lived with was dead. It was sad, but it wasn’t a tragedy. Not to me. A tragedy is when a good person dies young. Wendell wasn’t a particularly good person. What was most impactful, I suppose, was the way he died.”

  “Why was that impactful?”

  She sipped her martini before answering and prefaced her answer with a gentle shake of her lovely head.

  “Perhaps impactful is the wrong word. Maybe dramatic is better. Surely you’d agree that being shot by someone is a dramatic way to have one’s life end.”

  Cobb waited a beat before saying, “Ms. Hainsey, do you have any idea who might have shot Wendell Claiborne?”

  He’d gone back to calling her Ms. Hainsey. I wasn’t surprised. Cobb didn’t put interrogating witnesses in a murder investigation in the same category as a casual chat over an Americano at Starbucks. And there was something else. I didn’t think Cobb liked Susannah Hainsey a whole lot. It was nothing he was doing or even the way he was phrasing his questions, but I’d known him long enough to get a sense that she was not someone he would care to spend a whole lot of time with. What surprised me was that although she was striking, I didn’t much like her either. And I wasn’t sure why.

  “You mentioned the police have made an arrest.”

  “They have, yes,” Cobb said.

  Susannah Hainsey raised her hands, palms up as if to say, Then it’s settled; why are you asking me that question.

  “The person in police custody, who, by the way, has not yet been charged, is, as I mentioned on the phone, our client. He is fifteen years old and he did not kill your former partner. We’d like to make sure he is not imprisoned for something he didn’t do. So I repeat my question: Do you have any thoughts as to who might have shot Wendell Claiborne?”

  “Surely any conjecture on my part would be a waste of time. I’m sure the police have much more complete information to work from and it seems to me that they are doing that work.”

  “Humour me,” Cobb pressed. “Let’s pretend the police haven’t made an arrest or maybe they have but they’ve got the wrong person. Any thoughts as to who might have wanted to kill your ex—?” He almost said husband, but caught himself.

  “I can think of lots of people who might have liked the idea of killing Wendell.” A slight smile, mouth only this time. “But as to someone who could actually have pulled the trigger, well, I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s difficult to be definitive.”

  “Would you include your sister Janine in the group that might have liked to see Claiborne dead?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Maybe the quickest response she had given so far.

  “You seem quite certain on that point.”

  “I am, yes.”

  Cobb looked over at me as he often did at about this time in the questioning, the silent invitation to ask any questions of my own.

  “Susannah,” I began — first name was okay with me; I was, after all, just the researcher, not the investigator. And in this scenario, the good cop. “How well do you know the current Mrs. Claiborne?”

  “Rachel? Well, I know her, of course. We were on a committee together at the Calgary Public Library. We were looking at the history of the library, how best to preserve and present that history. But I can’t say I know her well. Not well enough to know if she’d — what’s the word on all those shows? — snuff her husband.” She smiled.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a life coach. I work from here and stay pretty busy. I have a philosophy degree and it’s difficult to put it to work in any sort of lucrative way.”

  I looked around the apartment. “Life coach work seems lucrative enough.”

  All vestiges of her smile disappeared. So much for good cop. And so much for working my way onto Susannah Hainsey’s Christmas card list.

  “It does,” she said in a voice that was icicle-cold. “That and my investments keep me comfortable.”

  Having destroyed all prospects of my becoming Paris to this particular Helen, I plunged ahead. “Did the settlement from parting company with Claiborne provide the seed money for those investments?”

  “I’m not sure that has anything to do with what we’re talking about or that it is any of your business.” Colder still.

  “Actually, it might,” I said. “I’m wondering if the settlement was one large transaction or if the money has been paid out in smaller amounts over a longer period of time.”

  “We weren’t married.”

  “So you mentioned. But there was a settlement of sorts. You didn’t leave the relationship with nothing.” I thought if I spoke assertively enough, I might convince her that I knew things that, in fact, I was guessing at, although Lorne Cooney had seemed fairly certain she was in pretty fair financial shape after her breakup with Claiborne.

  “And why would you think that might be important?”

  “A few reasons,” I said. “For example, if he was continuing to pay you, then it would seem less likely that you would want him dead, as that might put an end to the … uh … income. Kind of like a motive in reverse.” I smiled, but the gesture was not returned.

  “Then I guess I’m off your suspects list.”

  “Or conversely, if he had threatened to cut off the cash flow, why then … you see where I’m going with that.” I wasn’t sure why I had suddenly gone rogue. But I found this stunning woman very easy to dislike. And her indifference to the possibility that a fifteen-year-old kid was charged with a crime he may not have committed was, I think, the tipping point.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Care to tell us how much the payments are?”

  “No.” She stood up to let us know our conversation was over.
r />   Cobb said, “I want to thank you for your time, Ms. Hainsey. One last thing …”

  “Yes?” Her tone was less than inviting.

  “I’m sure you’ve answered this question for the police, but it would help us a lot.”

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  “Can you tell us where you were at around midnight three nights ago?”

  “Ah,” she said. “Of course you’d ask that. The answer is I was right here. Trenton can corroborate that. That’s the right word, isn’t it? Corroborate?”

  “That’s the right word. And if we want to talk to Trenton, is it best to call here?”

  “I think you’ve inconvenienced us enough. You aren’t the police, so we probably won’t be chatting further. Either of us.”

  Cobb nodded. “Thank you again for your time.”

  Once we were outside the building, Cobb looked at me. “What’d you think?”

  “I don’t think she liked us.”

  “No.” Cobb shook his head. “I don’t think she liked you.”

  “Probably saw me eyeing her martini.”

  “Yeah, that must have been it.”

  We climbed into his Cherokee. “What’s next?” I asked.

  “The other half of the sisters. Tomorrow morning. Ten. Coffee first?”

  “I always want coffee first.”

  “Purple Perk at nine then.”

  SIX

  A tragedy is when a good person dies young. Susannah Hainsey’s words were particularly appropriate on a morning when I was writing a piece about one of the people in Canadian music I had most admired. Gord Downie had left us the previous October 17, coincidentally the day of the Calgary civic election, about which I had also written. Maclean’s had contracted me to write an in-depth follow-up article to the dozens of tribute pieces that had come out immediately after his passing.

  I’d been in the Purple Perk for almost an hour but had barely touched my coffee. I stared at my computer screen, trying to come up with something fresh, something that hadn’t already been said.

  In the years that followed Donna’s death, I had struggled to find something to give meaning to my life. And while it would never mend the heartbreak that losing Donna had caused, I found solace in music, Canadian music specifically. I’d never been able to make music in any form, not really. Like a lot of thirteen- or fourteen-year-old kids, I’d dreamed of being part of the garage band that made it. Bought the guitar, learned a few chords, wrote a handful of terrible songs, played like crazy for a couple of months. When no one discovered me and the three friends who’d formed Nude Reality, we put the instruments away and went back to baseball and hockey.

  But after the arsonist took Donna from me, I returned to music, not as a music-maker but as an observer and fan of Canadian music, and perhaps even something of an authority on the subject. My collection of records and CDs still took up close to a third of the space in my living room. Not to mention the files on my computer and my iPod.

  And more than any other, with the possible exceptions of Blue Rodeo and Arcade Fire, the Hip had become my band of choice. The music and the musicianship were amazing but driving the experience was the poetry, Downie’s words.

  I’d met him only once, briefly, but through his lyrics — which conveyed the thoughts of this immensely decent, enormously talented man — I felt I knew him. Knew him well.

  I continued to stare at my coffee as Cobb arrived and sat down across from me. Cobb, who was one of the most perceptive people I had ever met, after a couple of minutes said, “Tough day?”

  “Yeah, working on the Gord Downie story. It’s not going well.”

  Cobb picked up my coffee cup and disappeared for a minute. He returned with a fresh cup for me and one for himself.

  “I met him once,” I said, “after a concert in 2013. Outdoors at Shaw Millennium Park. It was raining and nobody cared, nobody left. It was amazing. The Hip played like it was thirty degrees and sunny. I hung around after, thinking wouldn’t it be cool to meet the guy and knowing there was no chance. So, there I was, leaning against this fence and I looked up and there was Gord. He leaned against the fence with me and we talked for maybe ten minutes. In the rain. But the most incredible thing was he mostly wanted to talk about me. I told him that Donna was crazy about the Hip and he wanted to know what happened to her. I told him, and the guy was genuinely sad. You can tell when it’s not just words — when someone means it. He meant it. Finally, we shook hands and said so long. It was one of those really great moments in your life that comes along totally unexpectedly.”

  “Cool story,” Cobb said.

  “I’ve just been rereading the obits and the features — a lot of good stuff. I’d like to say something that hasn’t been said.”

  “Why don’t you write what you just told me? Talking to Gord Downie in the rain.”

  “You think so?”

  “Why not? I just learned something about the guy I didn’t know. And I’m glad I know that now. Why not share that story with a bunch of people?”

  “You know something, that’s not bad.”

  Cobb smiled and nodded. “I’m actually a very smart guy. You want something to eat?”

  I started to shake my head, then realized I was starving. “Yeah, that might be good.”

  “What’ll you have? I’m buying.”

  “They make a pretty good breakfast sandwich,” I said.

  “On it.”

  Cobb left again, eventually returning with the sandwiches in hand. I closed up my laptop and we ate, for the most part in silence. When we’d finished, a server cleared the plates and we got refills of coffee.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to pick up the pace on Claiborne. Danny’s been charged and the prosecutor is already making noise about trying him in adult court.”

  “What are the chances of that happening?”

  Cobb shrugged. “I’d like to believe they aren’t very good, but there are no guarantees.”

  I nodded. “Okay, let’s get going. Thanks for breakfast. And the help with the Downie piece.”

  “Anytime.” Cobb pulled out his notebook. “Before we head out, I ran a check of the lady. Seems Janine has a slightly checkered past.”

  Lorne Cooney didn’t have that, or if he did he hadn’t mentioned it.

  “As in a criminal record?”

  Cobb nodded. “Exactly. Care to guess what her sin was?”

  “So far this crowd seems fairly keen on money and acquiring it. Not always by means that endear them to the authorities. I’ll go down that road.”

  “Good call. She defrauded not one but two banks — some kind of phony mortgage scheme. Borrowed money against properties she didn’t actually own. When she failed to make the payments, the financial institutions moved to foreclose, only to find out that the person they loaned the money to was fictional. She pulled it off twice, got caught the third time. Did three years at the Fraser Valley Institution for Women. Got out in ’94, married Claiborne two years later. Spent less time married than she did in the Big House. But the interesting thing is that Claiborne and company have been pretty successful at sweeping this one under the ol’ rug. It’s a well-guarded secret.”

  That helped to explain why Lorne didn’t have that one in his packet of info.

  “I suspect there are a few of those. And it seems fair to say that money is a bit of an ongoing theme.”

  “Yeah, except for one thing. She’s found religion in the years since Claiborne.”

  “Really found it or bullshit found it?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I go to church and I pray lots but I’m actually a racist and I’m okay with white supremacy and the person I love most in the world is me. That’s bullshit religion.”

  “I can’t imagine there are people like that in the world.”

  “Maybe one or two,” I said.

  Cobb shrugged. “Can’t say what kind of Christian Janine Claiborne is.”

  “Lorne said something abo
ut her being a church secretary.”

  “Correct. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee that a person is sincere in their beliefs, or even that they have any. Maybe it’s something we should inquire about.”

  “Wonder what happened to the money she acquired during the more sordid part of her past.”

  “Something else we might want to ask her.”

  “She never remarried?”

  Cobb shook his head. “Don’t know if there’s a boyfriend or not. Let’s add that to the list.” He stood up, slipped his notebook into his pocket. “You have your car here?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t feel like walking this morning.”

  “How about you drive? I want to make some calls.”

  Janine Claiborne lived in Crescent Heights, a venerable Calgary neighbourhood perched at the top of the North Hill. One of my favourite parts of the city, in part because I went to high school there.

  The house was small and older, but immaculate. The yard was the same. Unfortunately, the place was surrounded by infills and would probably itself be bulldozed or moved off the property in the next few years.

  We sat in the car in front of Janine Claiborne’s home as Cobb talked first to Danny’s lawyer — not a lot of new information there — then Danny’s dad. While I could only hear Cobb’s side of the conversation, it seemed that Matthew Luft had mellowed some in the time since he’d tossed me out of the interview room at the police station. Cobb ended the call and turned to me. “He wants to meet with us later today.”

  “Us? As in you and me?”

  Cobb grinned. “I guess you grow on people. I expect a call any time now from Susannah inviting us to dinner.”

  “We might both starve to death before that happens.”

  “You might be right.” Cobb climbed out of the Accord and led the way to the house.

  Janine Claiborne was clearly ready for us. She met us at the front door before Cobb even had a chance to ring the bell. After what felt like a warm greeting, she directed us inside, where coffee and tea were waiting.