She looked at me, and suddenly her eyes went bright with moisture. “I think I’ll just take a bath and go to bed,” she said, her voice thick. “Do you mind? I’m just shitty company right now.”
I sat there for a moment, trying not to look stunned. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been through an ordeal.” I resisted the urge to scream, “Talk to me!” I got up, and she continued to sit, her cheek cradled in her palm. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” And I let Arch and myself out.
I was glad I’d parked three blocks away, because I needed to walk to clear my head. The debacle at Standing Rock was a crushing defeat, and I knew Winona didn’t just feel it for herself, she felt it for all the assembled Native Americans there, each and every one of them. Now she’s trying to deal with it as best she can, I told myself. She’s proud and strong and doesn’t want me to see her like this. That’s got to be it, so don’t take it personally.
It was good advice, reflecting a mature attitude, but by the time I got to the car, I looked down at Arch and said, “Yeah, but who in the hell is Hal Lightfeather, anyway?”
That Friday at Caffeine Central was as busy as I’d ever seen it, which was fine with me. It kept me from brooding about Winona and the mining going on in my backyard, although it did occur to me at a lull that if it was true that bad luck came in threes, I was really screwed. In addition to the usual real estate issues and immigration inquiries, I found myself counseling a young couple that morning, who were squabbling over ownership of one of the city’s newest phenomena, a tiny house. “You wouldn’t have sought a mediator unless you were reasonable people,” I said after listening to them bicker for forty minutes. “Try again, and if you can’t work it out, come back in two weeks and I’ll decide it for you. I doubt you’ll both be happy with the outcome.”
During lunch I got a text from Semyon Lebedev:
Buy me a beer? Same place Saturday around 4.
I texted back that I would be there.
Business dropped off that afternoon, which was a good thing, because I’d identified and scheduled meetings with the two people whose names I’d found in Margaret Wingate’s purse. Okay, it was a slim reed, but it was all I had to go on related to her activities prior to her death.
“Yes, Mrs. Wingate came to see me a couple of times about the North Waterfront Project,” Fred Poindexter said in answer to my first question. We were through the introductions, which included my telling him I was following up on some issues pertaining to the Wingate estate. Poindexter, it turned out, was director of the Portland Planning Commission. Vegan thin with a neatly trimmed beard, he had a quick smile and eyes that seemed to dart rather than move. “We, um, had some quite detailed discussions about it.”
“Why would she come to you about her own company’s project?”
“She had some concerns. I think she was looking for an independent assessment. A project of this magnitude’s a joint effort between the city and the developer.”
“What were her concerns?” He hesitated for a moment. “I’m just curious,” I added. “Her daughter told me she had serious misgivings about the project.”
He smiled. It looked a bit forced. “She wondered why we weren’t insisting on more of a mixed-use project with less emphasis on private luxury amenities.”
“And…?”
The smile again. “I explained that our master plan calls for commercial and high-end residential development for that area, similar to the South Waterfront. The jobs created and the potential tax revenues the project will generate are essential to the city.” With that, Poindexter launched into a sales pitch.
When he finished, I said, “She agreed, then?”
“Yes, after our second meeting, she was satisfied with the plan.”
We talked a bit more about the planning process and Portland’s master plan, but that was pretty much it. I told him thanks and left him with a puzzled look on his face. He really wasn’t sure why I’d come in the first place.
My meeting with Tracey Thomas was a different story. “Margaret Wingate had profound misgivings about the North Waterfront Project,” Thomas replied when I told her what Poindexter had said. She was an attractive, outspoken woman with a quick mind and sharp wit who had been elected to City Council against considerable odds. “I was flabbergasted, you know, when she came in here and told me that. I mean, here’s the owner of the biggest real estate development company in Portland doubting the direction of her own project. Wow.”
“Why did she come to see you?”
“She wanted my views on the project.” Thomas smiled with a hint of pride. “I think she knew my reputation for questioning all the mindless development going on in this beautiful city of ours. We talked at length about what’s happening. She was hungry for information, like the newly converted always are.” Thomas smiled with genuine warmth. “She told me about the Women’s March, how she went to Washington with her daughter, how it was transformative for her.” She paused, and her face clouded over. “A shame what happened. Jogging. God. I run every day, just like she did.”
I nodded. “So, she was thinking about redirecting the project?”
“Yeah, I think so. She was trying to get up to speed, but that was her intent. Why not mixed-use, instead of ultra-high-end? Just like me, she detested that hideous tower, the golf course, the yacht harbor. Yuck.”
“But Brice Avery was resistant? Did she say that?”
“She said it was like trying to turn a battleship. I mean, it’s the biggest single project this city’s ever seen, and Avery’s set to take a lot of the credit.” Thomas met and held my eyes. “Fred Poindexter wants it, too, and doesn’t want anything negative said about it.”
“Will City Council approve it?”
She sighed. “It won’t get my vote, but it’ll probably pass since the Planning Commission blessed it. The Council’s never seen a major project it didn’t love.”
“What about the mayor?”
She shrugged. “He’s new, like me.” Her eyes twinkled for an instant. “We’ll see if he has a pair or not.”
I chuckled. “What about the financing?”
“Funny you should ask. I just heard yesterday from sources that the funds are there. Out-of-state money. That’s another strike against the project, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Do you know who the investor is?”
“Nope, but I’m working on it.”
“If you find out, would you let me know?”
She eyed me with obvious curiosity and smiled. “Your reputation precedes you, Cal Claxton. You’ve got great street cred, and you’ve solved some major crimes in this city. I know you’re representing Margaret’s daughter, but what’s really behind all these questions?”
I sensed I could trust her, and God knows I needed help. “Let’s just say the terms of the will are a little surprising. For example, it directs the executor to sell the company. I’m taking a look at it as a favor to Ms. Wingate, the only remaining heir.”
She came forward in her seat. “Wingate Properties is on the block? That’s a shocker. You think the will is illegit?”
I shook my head. “Nowhere close to that. But I am curious about the investor.”
She held her eyes on me for a few beats. Wide-spaced under arching brows, they were the color of nutmeg. “Okay, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”
We sat there for a while. “What’s the endpoint of all this development?” I mused, breaking the silence. “Will Portland just keep growing until it’s squeezed out everything that made it attractive and vibrant in the first place?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a race to the bottom paved with gold. But it’s not too late. What we need are leaders who’ll put the city ahead of money and politics. And at least the press isn’t all-in on the development frenzy. A reporter for The Oregonian just interviewed me for a major piece she’s working on.”
“Cynthia Duncan?”
“Yeah. You know her?” I nodded, and she chuckled. “She let me go on about the insanity of the North Waterfront Project. Had her tape recorder running through my whole rant.”
I thanked her and left, thinking that if Tracey Thomas ever decided to run for mayor, I’d volunteer to be her campaign manager. And I came away knowing investigative reporter Cynthia Duncan was still out there. A blessing or a curse? I wasn’t sure which.
Back at Caffeine Central, I took Arch out for our usual run along the river. A brisk wind was blowing rain clouds around, but none had managed to accumulate over city center. Cooped up most of the afternoon, he took off like a prancing pony, tugging on his leash, urging me on. It felt good to blow the pipes out, and by the time we got back to the stairs at Burnside, I was huffing and sweating. I felt better than I should have, considering that my personal life had pretty much gone to hell. The saving grace was the Wingate case, I realized. I felt like I was making progress, and that brought a feeling of anticipation and no small amount of satisfaction.
All the same, the accelerating pace of the investigation brought an element of déjà vu and a sense that I was, if not on, then damn close to a slippery slope. It was a feeling I’d learned not to ignore.
Chapter Fourteen
Spring got a boost that weekend when a high-pressure ridge parked just north of the state of Washington, holding the jet stream at bay up in Canada. The temperature drifted into the seventies, and the sky turned that achingly clear, cobalt-blue unique to the Northwest. I slept in until about nine on Saturday, got up, and texted Winona:
You up? I’m bringing coffee and almond croissants.
This came back:
Thanks, but I’m off for the Rez. Need a sweat lodge cleansing.
I texted her back, wishing her well, but that stung; not even an indication of when she was coming back, and I was too proud to ask. I looked at Archie. “Let me guess. Hal Lightfeather’s going to join her for the sweat?” He looked back with a scolding look as if to say, “Don’t doubt her,” although it was more likely he just wanted to be fed.
Later that morning I was perusing my e-mail when a note from Marnie Stinson pinged in:
Hi Cal, according to records submitted by McMinnville Sand and Gravel, their aggregate inventory was sold exclusively by H and S Landscape and Construction Supply out of Newberg. The owner’s name is Dudley Cahill. The attached PDF shows the sales records in question. It doesn’t look good. Sorry. Marnie.
I printed out the attached file—three pages of sales records covering the time after the mine was shut down, each page signed by Dudley Cahill. The sales continued for eleven months and a couple of days, according to the records. Subtracting that from the time the mine was idle—twelve years and ten months—brought the time down to eleven years and eleven months, or a month shy of the twelve-year cutoff. This appeared to confirm McMinnville’s assertion that they were mining legally. Shit.
I looked through the printout again, tossed it on my desk, and leaned back. A record like that could be altered, of course. Any record can. I wanted more proof, like receipts for the delivery of the gravel. Somebody—an independent contractor, probably—hauled some of that rock from McCallister to H and S in dump trucks, and there should be a record of that as well. The county folded after seeing scant proof of timing, which was no doubt evidence of the clout the mining company had. But this wasn’t over, as far as I was concerned. I picked up the phone and called H and S, and was told that Dudley Cahill was out until the following Tuesday.
I made an appointment to see him.
After lunch I put Arch into the car and headed north on the I-5. About a mile from the bridge into Vancouver—Portland’s neighbor just across the Columbia River in Washington—the traffic sputtered to a crawl, which even on a Saturday had become a common occurrence. A badly needed bridge expansion project had died in a hail of interstate politics four years earlier. But it wasn’t just the bridge on the river. Traffic across the Portland area was becoming more like L.A. every day. Ah, the march of progress.
Helen Ferris, the other person who witnessed the signing of Margaret Wingate’s will, lived in Vancouver, just off East McLaughlin, near Clark College. I parked in front of her two-story brick townhouse, cracked the car windows, and told Archie to chill.
The townhouse sat at the end of a row of well-maintained condos that were old enough to have ivy growing on some of the brick walls. She didn’t answer the bell, but I thought I heard something inside, maybe a TV or radio. I tried the bell again, then walked around the side of the house to a gate leading to the fenced-in backyard. On my tiptoes, I caught a glimpse of a woman hunched over a flat of flowers. “Mrs. Ferris,” I called out, “can I come in?”
“Are you the electrician? You certainly got here fast,” she called back.
A little luck now and then never hurts. I didn’t answer but let myself in and approached with what I hoped was a disarming smile. “Those impatiens will do a lot better in the shade.” I pointed to an area along the walkway. “Maybe over there?”
She looked up at me with a hand shading her eyes. “You’re not the electrician. Who are you?” She stood up with the aid of a cane and faced me, holding a trowel with a firm grip. She was tall with soft gray eyes, a square, no-nonsense jaw, and straight, russet-red hair that hung like a fringe below a broad-brimmed gardening hat. I introduced myself and handed her a card. “Oh.” Her face instantly clouded over. “Melvin said you might be in touch.”
“Well, if you’ve spoken to Mr. Turner, then you know why I’m here. I apologize for just barging in, but I was in the neighborhood, which, by the way, is lovely,” I said, holding the smile. “I’m hoping you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”
“I was Mr. Turner’s confidential secretary, so there’s very little I’m at liberty to discuss. I’m sure you understand that, Mr. Claxton.”
“Of course.” I’d done some homework and knew she worked directly for Turner for several years and was married, although according to Angela, her husband was afflicted with early onset Alzheimer’s and had been in a care facility for some time. “I’m just, you know, tying up a few loose ends for Ms. Wingate regarding the disposition of her mother’s will. Everything looks in order, so I’ll probably be wrapping this up soon,” I lied. “You know these millennials. Such an impetuous bunch.”
She smiled faintly. “Yes, Angela’s certainly that.” And a lot more, I read from the lingering ambiguity of her expression.
I took her through a series of questions relating to the timing and process used to update Margaret Wingate’s will, some of which she answered and others she didn’t. I ended by saying, “And I assume you were the person who typed up the drafts and the final product?”
The question seemed to unnerve her for a moment. “I typed up all of Melvin’s work. It was my job.”
I smiled warmly. “Of course, and I’m told you were an excellent assistant.” Then I locked my eyes on her face and popped the only question I’d really come there to ask. “Tell me, Mrs. Ferris, how is it that the will that was produced has an extra page?”
The throat muscles in the hollow of her neck contracted as she swallowed, and her cheeks lost a shade of color. “An extra page?”
“That’s right,” I went on, feeling more and more like Lieutenant Columbo. “The will states there should be thirteen pages, including the Attestation page. The copy of the will Turner gave my client has fourteen pages by that count.” I smiled. “I’m kind of OCD about details. Just wondering how that could have happened?”
She swallowed again. “Well, apparently I made a mistake. It happens, you know. Whether or not to include the Attestation page in the count can be a source of confusion.”
I nodded. “Sure, I can understand that. A will is a complex instrument with a lot of moving parts. Easy to make a mistake.”
She folded her arm
s across her chest and stood a little straighter in a show of confidence, but her eyes looked troubled. “Do you have any other questions, Mr. Claxton?”
I smiled again. “No. That covers it. Thanks for your cooperation.” When I got to the gate, I turned back on a hunch and met her eyes, which looked even more troubled. “You know, Mrs. Ferris, if there’s something you want to tell me about this situation, or if you need any guidance at all, you have my number. Feel free to contact me. There are more options than you may think.”
We stood facing each other for a few moments, and I saw something stir in her eyes. Then it died as she abruptly averted her gaze. “Please leave, Mr. Claxton.”
On the way back to Portland, I sifted through what I had so far. No doubt about it, Helen Ferris was hiding something, and it involved Margaret Wingate’s will. If the will was tampered with, Ferris certainly had to have been involved. But why do that in the first place? The proceeds from the sale go to charity, not in anyone’s pocket. Just to save the jobs of Melvin Turner and Brice Avery? Maybe. Were they both involved in the forgery? Maybe. But somehow saving jobs seemed a weak motive for such a brazen act.
Halfway across the I-5 bridge, my thoughts turned to the hit-and-run. Was it connected? I asked myself. My gut said yes, but the will could have been changed opportunistically after the fact. Was it murder, followed by forgery, or just forgery after an untimely accident? I had no way of knowing. The only thing I did know for sure was that I didn’t have a shred of proof for any of this. And I was willing to bet that, in terms of the will, Turner and his assistant had thoroughly covered their tracks. An extra page might have rattled Helen Ferris, but it was evidence of nothing. The will, in fact, looked rock solid.
I felt a flush of frustration. This case just didn’t seem to make any sense. I was missing something, something big.
Moving Targets Page 9