“The dude you ran into must’ve been Darius. He’s a photographer, just moved in. That makes ten of us, two up here and eight on the first floor. We pay a fee in exchange for a private studio and a chunk of the retail space. I tried working in the garage where I live, but some tweakers broke in and stole my tanks and torches one night. Took me six months to save up enough money to replace the equipment.”
“You lease the space?”
Her face clouded over. “Yeah, but not for long. We just got a heads-up from the landlord that our lease is not going to be renewed.”
“When does that happen?”
“We have three months before we get kicked out. They’re going to convert the building to condos or something, double or triple the rent, probably. She looked at me, her eyes brimming with passion. “Artists, musicians, all kinds of creative people flocked to this town because of the vibe and affordability of creative space. Now we’re getting pushed out. It really sucks.”
We kicked the gentrification dilemma around for a while, then Arch and I watched as Angela went back to work. We left her perched on a stepladder, her torch flashing and hissing as she worked on a form that was at once graceful and imposing, and which touched on some longing in my heart I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
As I drove back across the river, my mind was weighed down by thoughts of the city I loved and what was happening to it. It was almost a relief when those musings were finally pushed aside by the questions I intended to ask the Wingate family lawyer, Melvin Turner, concerning Margaret Wingate’s estate. Something just didn’t add up.
Chapter Five
“It’s all in one piece,” I said into my phone, standing in the center of Winona Cloud’s apartment later that afternoon. Winona was, for lack of a better term, my girlfriend. She was away, and I’d promised to keep an eye on her place.
“No broken water pipes, huh?” She’d been gone better than three weeks and needed her plants watered and reassurance that her beloved collection of paintings—mostly Native American art—was still safe and sound on the brick walls of her loft, the second floor of a converted liquor warehouse in Portland’s Pearl District.
“Not a one, and your art’s as beautiful as ever. Are you okay?” It wasn’t an idle question. Winona, a Wasco Indian and member of the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs, had gone to Standing Rock, North Dakota, to stand in the fight against a crude oil pipeline project that threatened sacred and water-critical Sioux tribal land. The protest was disintegrating, but Winona chose to stay. I worried about her.
She laughed, which I read as an effort to reassure me. “I’m fine, although I can tell you that getting drenched with a fire hose when it’s eighteen degrees out is no fun.” I groaned and started to say something, but she cut me off. “We’re trying to figure out our strategy, now that the environmental impact report has been waived by executive order, giving the bastards a green light.”
She took me through some of the options they were considering, none of them reassuring at all. “Is it going to get more violent?” I asked, fearing the worst.
She laughed defiantly. “That’s up to them.”
The call went silent for several moments. “Be a voice for non-violence, Winona.”
“I will,” she promised. “What’s happening at your end?” I brought her up to date, mentioning Angela’s nascent case last. She said, “That cage fighter and the Russian Mafia? Sounds dicey, Cal.”
I laughed at that. “Look who’s talking.” She didn’t respond, which was a response of sorts. After we signed off I stood there thinking about this woman, who along with my daughter, Claire, occupied the piece of my heart that hadn’t been shattered by my wife’s death. I was lucky to have found her, and I knew it.
The pro bono work at Caffeine Central that Friday was uncharacteristically slow, so I closed up shop early and headed for Dundee to beat the traffic. Just past the curves on Wilsonville-Newberg Road a call came in. “Cal? It’s Marnie. Sorry for the slow response. Took some time off this week. What can I do for you?”
Marnie Stinson was a senior staff member of the Yamhill County Planning Commission. I’d handled her divorce a few years back, which included slapping a restraining order on her abusive husband. That act and the favorable settlement earned me her undying appreciation. “Thanks for returning my call, Marnie. Hey, I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything about a quarry being reactivated—the one that’s just below my place.”
“McCallister?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. A crew was in there blasting last Saturday. The foreman told me they were assessing a vein of blue basalt. Scared the crap out of my dog.”
“Sorry about your dog. It’s not surprising. Animals, particularly dogs, are very sensitive to blasting. Haven’t heard a thing, but gravel is in high demand these days, and blue basalt’s the best substrate.”
“They can’t just start mining again, can they?”
“Well, they’d need to apply for a permit, unless they’re grandfathered in. How long has the site been inactive?”
“Ever since I’ve been here, so better than ten years.”
“Twelve years is the cutoff. If they’ve idled that mine for that long, they lose their right to reopen without a permit, which they won’t get in today’s environment. The Red Hills area is wine country now.”
I thanked her, hung up, and went out on the front porch. Sure enough, my neighbor to the north and my intrepid accountant, Gertrude Johnson, was out doing what I’d been avoiding—working on her garden. I walked up to the north fenceline and called out to her. She put her hoe down and joined me. Streaked with veins of pewter, her dark hair was pulled back and tied off, and the smile lines on her handsome face were deeply etched by the slanting afternoon light.
After some gardening and shoptalk, I said, “Did you feel the tremors the other day?”
“I did. Reminded me of when they used to blast down in the quarry.”
“That’s what it was.” I went on to explain the situation. “Do you remember how long they’ve been idle down there?”
She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead and paused for a moment. “Twelve years and ten months,” she answered.
“You sure?” I wanted confirmation, even though I knew she had a steel-trap mind.
“Yes. I remember because my husband died a month before they shut down. It pissed me off that he didn’t get to see it. He hated that damn pit.”
I explained what Marnie Stinson just told me. Gertie said, “Well, I hope you’re right, Cal. The quarry starting up again would be a nightmare for all of us on the hill, but you’ll get the brunt of it because you’re on the lip. The mining industry in this state’s powerful and well connected, so beware.”
Her warning notwithstanding, I felt relieved as I walked back down to the house. I still hadn’t heard back from McMinnville Sand and Gravel, but when I did, I was looking forward to breaking the sad news to them.
A big front moved in off the Pacific that weekend, which put a crimp in my plans to get the vegetable garden ready for planting. The sun made a brief but dazzling appearance on Sunday morning while I stood at the kitchen window sipping a freshly made cappuccino. As if a switch had been flipped, the valley suddenly rippled with vivid spring colors, and in the foreground the emerging buds and tendrils shrouded the distant vineyard in a green haze. Meanwhile, the neighborhood finches, nuthatches, and sparrows commenced a friendly game of musical chairs at my feeders.
I took my cappuccino into the study, and after perusing the news, did a more thorough computer search of Wingate Properties. While it hit the front pages, the death of Margaret Wingate and its impact on the company hadn’t been covered in the business section of The Oregonian. I figured that was because the details of her will and estate were still being sorted out. There was, however, plenty of coverage of the company’s activities, which ranged from buying land for
speculation to spearheading developments impacting every quadrant of the city.
There were a couple of recently completed projects, including a large one on SE Division that had torn down a block of existing houses and built new, upscale condos and trendy shops in a neighborhood that was once one of Portland’s blue-collar strongholds. The opening of the development, it was reported, attracted a rowdy crowd of angry Portlanders protesting yet another loss of affordable housing. It was a familiar story in Portland, where battle lines had sharpened even more dramatically since the presidential election.
An article on an upcoming project caught my eye.
The article went on to mention that the project had the support of the Portland Design Commission, whose chairman, Fredrick Poindexter, was quoted, “We’re solidly behind this project. The plan is as bold and innovative as anything we’ve seen in Portland.” A dissenting voice was noted, however. City Councilwoman Tracey Thomas said of the project, “We don’t need a gilded tower in Portland for the one percent. We need affordable housing.”
I pushed myself away from the computer, put my hands behind my head, and leaned back in my old roller chair. Led by Brice Avery, it looked like Wingate Properties was aggressively pursuing, if not leading, the high end of the Portland real estate market. I thought about what Angela told me—that Margaret Wingate might have been questioning that strategy. I had to laugh. The current political climate was minting new social activists at a heady clip, and I was willing to bet that socialite Margaret Wingate’s epiphany—the term Angela used—came as quite a shock to Brice Avery. And I wondered again about Wingate’s will, which bequeathed a house to Angela, her next of kin, but apparently nothing related to the multimillion-dollar Wingate Properties.
I wasn’t suspicious at this juncture, but I was curious about how all these disparate parts fit together in the run-up to Margaret Wingate’s death.
Chapter Six
Beep, beep, beep. The sound was distant yet incessant. Beep, beep, beep. The sound got louder. Beep, beep, beep. That did it. I was awake. I looked over at Arch, who was already standing with an annoyed look on his face. “What the hell’s that noise?” I asked him. I took the backstairs, fed my dog, and made a coffee, all the while being serenaded by the beeping, which was clearly coming from the quarry.
I left Archie in the house this time and drove around to the quarry entrance. I parked outside the gate and got out just as a truck loaded up with the rusted remnants of the previous mining operation pulled out. A bright yellow front-loader was filling another truck further into the quarry. When the tractor backed up, I realized it was the source of the beeping. My friend with the beard stood off to the side with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He saw me at the same time I saw him, and when I approached, he said, “Sir, you’re trespassing again, and you can’t be in here without a hard hat, either.”
“Good morning to you, too.” I pointed at the front-loader. “I just stopped by to disconnect that goddamn backup beeper. It woke me and my dog up.”
He flashed an exasperated look and glanced over at a couple of workers who had paused to listen to the exchange. “Sir, I’m asking you to leave.”
“If you’re just cleaning up the area, which is something you should have done years ago, fine. If you’re thinking about mining again, think twice. You have no permit to do so. Tell your boss that. Tell them if they try to mine here, I’ll slap them with an injunction so fast their heads will spin.” I turned around and walked out, my face hot with anger.
By the time Arch and I got down to my office that morning, I’d cooled off some. I called McMinnville Sand and Gravel again and got a human this time. I asked for the president—a man named Mason Goodings, according to their website—and was put through to his voicemail. I left a measured response in which I informed him that it would be illegal to commence mining at McCallister’s Quarry unless they obtained a new permit from Yamhill County. And good luck with that, I said to myself as I hung up.
That week was slow in my Dundee office. The spring pause, I’d come to call it. It was as if the arrival of the sun, or at least more frequent sunbreaks, had moderated the urge to drive drunk, assault someone, file for divorce, or commit any number of willful acts of stupidity. Whatever the cause, I used the time to beat back some paperwork, a task I put just ahead of having my fingernails extracted. Midweek I drove over to McMinnville and managed to find the young man who threatened my client with disclosure of a sex tape. He was just getting out of his fire engine red Mazda MX-5 outside his apartment. I introduced myself, told him who I represented, and handed him a copy of the Hulk Hogan judgment, which delineated the one-hundred-forty-million-dollar judgment the TV wrestler won from a media outlet after public disclosure of a sex tape similar to what this guy was threatening. “Read this carefully,” I told him. “If you don’t burn that tape, and it shows up anywhere, we’ll see you in court.” I started to leave, then turned back to him and pointed at his car. “After you lose in court, your Mazda will be the first thing to go, trust me.”
He looked back at me like I’d just threatened his firstborn. Not going to be a problem, I told myself as I walked away.
The law offices of Turner, Ross, and Steinman were on the thirty-first floor of the Fox Tower in downtown Portland. On Thursday afternoon, I announced myself at the front desk, having set up a meeting with Melvin Turner after playing a round of phone tag. The high-rise went up in the nineties, but the office décor was old Portland with darkly stained wood paneling, brass fixtures, original art—mainly Northwest landscapes—and oriental rugs on the marble floors. A well-dressed woman ushered me to Turner’s office and rapped softly before opening the door.
Melvin Turner rose to greet me but stayed behind his massive desk. He was short, on the pudgy side, with a balding pate and gold wire rims that magnified his liquid eyes. A picture of him with his family—a wife and three smiling kids—was front and center on his back bar. He motioned for me to sit but remained standing and furrowed his wide brow. “So, Mr. Claxton, what’s this all about?”
“As I mentioned on the phone, Angela Wingate has retained me to look into the death of her mother. I’d just like to ask you a few questions for clarification.”
He held the perplexed look. “Are you an investigator or an attorney?”
“A little of both, I suppose. I’m a one-man law firm, so I do some of my own investigating.”
He took his seat, the whole time shaking his head. “I know Angela’s frustrated that the police are stymied at the moment, but I can assure you they’re pursuing this matter aggressively. What could you possibly add?”
“Probably nothing, but I told her I’d give it a fresh look. She understands the odds of my finding anything are low.”
He laughed. “That’s an understatement. Are you sure you’re not taking advantage of the situation, Mr. Claxton?”
I smiled. “I can understand that you might feel that way, but that’s not my motive here. And, frankly, I’m a little surprised to hear all the concern for my client. She tells me you haven’t exactly been a mentor of hers.”
He laughed again dismissively. “Oh, that’s rubbish. It was my job to look after the Wingates. A young woman, out of control like she was, could have been a real liability. And she’s not even a blood relation. But Angela seems to have put most of that rebellious behavior behind her.”
“I understand she and her mother recently reconciled.”
“Supposedly. I counseled Mrs. Wingate to take it slow, to make sure of Angela’s sincerity.”
“Did you also advise her regarding the direction of the North Waterfront Project?”
Turner looked incredulous, but an instant before that his eyes flared ever so slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I suspect you don’t either. Mrs. Wingate had no problems with the direction of the business.”
“She wasn’t concerned about the impact some of th
e developments would have on the character of the city?”
“Please. Did Angela tell you that? Like a lot of her generation, she has some rather naïve beliefs about economics and how the real world works. The Wingate developments will add jobs, tax revenues, and prosperity to a city that badly needs it. What in the world could be wrong with that?”
I shrugged. “That reminds me. Angela mentioned she didn’t receive a copy of Mrs. Wingate’s will.”
Turner waved a placating hand. “That must have been an oversight. I’ll make sure we put one in the mail for her today.”
“If you give me a copy, I’ll see that she gets it. It’ll save you a stamp.”
He stood up, his face taking on a little color. “That won’t be necessary. We’re finished here, Claxton. I’ll show you out.” Noting that he’d dropped the Mr. in front of my name, I followed him in silence. When we got to the lobby, he turned to me, and the overhead lights reflected off the droplets of sweat that had formed on his brow. He said in a low voice, “I’d advise you to drop this fool’s errand. If you don’t, I’ll make sure the Bar hears about this. Preying on a young girl who’s grieving over the death of her mother is very unseemly.”
I gave him my best smile. “Nice meeting you, too, Melvin. I’ll be in touch.”
At the car, I leashed up Archie and strode off for the Park Blocks, a tree-lined swath of green cutting through the center of Portland. Thoughts about what makes for a good city crowded into my head. “What in the world could be wrong with that?” Turner had asked. Hard to argue with, I supposed, but what about the creative class, the less powerful, and the most vulnerable? Could there be any balance in this city, or would it all eventually roll to the highest bidder?
I had no answers, but I was sure of one thing—Melvin Turner definitely didn’t want me poking around in Margaret Wingate’s death and his handling of her estate. I laughed at that. If he’d intended to discourage me, it had the opposite effect, like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
Moving Targets Page 4