Celilo's Shadow

by Wilcox, Valerie

  Ellie shook her head. “Just go, Danny.”

  He jammed the ribbon in his pocket and sprinted across the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dessa didn’t want to go shopping for school clothes since the summer wasn’t even half over yet and it was too dang hot to be trying on heavy sweaters and scratchy wool dresses. Dessa wanted to go swimming at the Nat instead, but once Maureen had her mind made up, there was no sense in arguing with her. Dessa should have known that Maureen would invite Ellie to go along with them. She’d use any excuse to encourage the friendship between the two girls. Not that Dessa minded if Ellie came with them. They were becoming fast friends even without her mother’s intervention. But Maureen seemed unwilling to accept that her daughter could finally sustain a friendship on her own. As if needing to justify the invite, Maureen said, “Ellie has good taste in clothes. You could learn a lot about style from her.” Her mother failed to note—or purposely avoided—the fact that Dessa would need a complete body makeover if she were to look as stylish as Ellie.

  Dessa’s father was usually tight with his wallet but Maureen had somehow convinced him to come up with a tidy sum for the shopping trip. Mrs. Peabody’s dress shop was overpriced but Dessa figured that if she were careful there might be enough left over to buy some typing paper. She needed supplies for her newsletter a heck of a lot more than a new dress or two. Surprisingly, the girls had an enjoyable time shopping. Maureen even promised to take them to lunch after they were done. But that never happened, thanks to Danny Longstreet.

  Ellie had gone outside the store to get a better look at a dress in the window display when Danny apparently popped up out of nowhere. Dessa didn’t know what he said to her but it must have been bad because Ellie’s screams could be heard even inside the dressing room at the back of the store. Dessa was midway through trying on an ugly corduroy jumper her mother had picked out when she heard Ellie’s screams. Her mother rushed out of the dressing room while Dessa hurried to get her own clothes back on. When she made it outside, she realized that her mother had no idea who Danny was. The distaste on her face just meant she’d registered the fact that a dirty Indian stood next to Ellie. When she learned that she’d come upon the infamous Danny Longstreet, Dessa was certain her mother was going to wet her pants. Danny seemed angry, then amused by her panicked reaction. He got right up in her face and said “Boo!” which just about did her mother in.

  The ride home in the car was strange. Maureen kept pestering Ellie with questions but got nowhere fast. Ellie clammed up and wouldn’t say a word about what Danny had said or done to cause her so much distress. Dessa was curious, too, but figured she’d be able to find out when Maureen wasn’t around. Luckily, her mother planned to go back to work at the bank as soon as she dropped the girls off. As they turned onto Cherry Blossom Lane, Maureen spotted Mr. Matthews’ truck in his driveway. “Is your father home sick?” she asked. “This heat wave, flu, or whatever is going around is hitting everyone hard. We had to cancel our garden club meeting this month because so many were ill.” Dessa knew her mother wasn’t concerned about her friends’ illnesses. She just hated to wait another whole month to tell them about today’s terrifying run-in with Danny Longstreet. Dessa had to admit the encounter—especially her mother’s over-the-top reaction—would make for an interesting item in her newsletter. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t do that to Ellie.

  Ellie gathered up her shopping bags, offered Maureen a half-hearted thank you for the outing and quickly ran into her house. Fifteen minutes later, she pounded on Dessa’s front door. If she’d been upset earlier, she looked unhinged now. She sobbed hysterically and practically flung herself at Dessa, crying again and again, “He lied, he lied. Everything’s a lie!” Dessa thought she meant Danny had lied but before she could ask, Ellie said, “Danny was right. My father is nothing but a rotten liar.”

  She ushered Dessa into the kitchen, sat her down at the table and poured her a large glass of cherry Kool-Aid. It took a while for her to cry herself out and calm down long enough to talk coherently. Even then, Dessa had a tough time following her rambling, disjointed narration. She was obviously angry with her father but it wasn’t immediately clear why she thought he’d lied. Dessa gave her a napkin to wipe her tear-stained face but refrained from trying to clarify anything. Given Ellie’s distraught state, it was best not to interrupt her so she could explain things in her own way. Hopefully, what she said would make more sense than it had so far.

  “I should’ve known it when I saw that empty liquor bottle in the trash. His promises mean nothing. He’s just a drunk and always will be.”

  Holy Cow! That was news. Mr. Matthews a drunk? Never.

  “There’s no foreman job at the dam. He’s still with the FBI. The Dalles wasn’t a fresh start for us. It’s just the same old, same old. Lies, all lies!”

  Did she say FBI? Who in the world is her father?

  Ellie dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with the now-soggy napkin. “How could he do it to Reba and Danny? That’s what I don’t get. I’m used to his secrets, but they trusted him. They thought he was their friend. He was supposed to be helping them. But he was just pretending like he always does. Digging up their ancestors is no way to help them.” She shuddered. “I can’t believe what an unfeeling monster he is.” The rest of Ellie’s rants were in much the same vein. How Mr. Matthews was mixed up with the FBI still wasn’t clear to Dessa, but one thing was certain—Ellie felt betrayed by her father.

  Ellie swallowed the last of the Kool-Aid and stood. “I have to go,” she said.

  “Where to?”

  “Celilo Village. I need to talk to Danny and Reba. I have to let them know that my father lied to me, too. That I didn’t betray them like Danny accused me of doing. That I’m really their friend, even if my father isn’t.”

  “How are you going to get there? The village is miles from here.”

  “I have two good legs.”

  “But it’s over a hundred degrees outside! You’ll never walk more than a mile before you’re dead from heat stroke.”

  “Honestly, Dessa, don’t be stupid. I won’t have to walk the whole way. I’ll just hitch a ride.”

  “Like that’s a safer thing to do. You better sit back down and think this through.”

  Ellie straightened her shoulders and held her head up, a determined gesture if there ever was one. “I’m leaving and you can’t stop me,” she said. “And don’t even think about telling my father or I’ll never speak to you again. Ever!”

  Dessa watched her huff out the door, wondering what she should do. Tell her father? Follow her? Do nothing? Whatever happened, Dessa was afraid it wasn’t going to turn out well for Ellie—or her.

  Chapter Thirty

  The last thing Tony wanted to do was host an open house on a blistering hot afternoon. The Ramseys had been hounding him for weeks, complaining that he hadn’t been actively marketing their bungalow. They weren’t far off the mark. He hadn’t wanted to take the listing, but felt obligated since he’d sold them the place—his first sale upon arriving in The Dalles. The two-bedroom dump had nothing going for it, but it was cheap and that was all the Ramseys, with their three kids, could afford at the time. Now, with kid number four on the way, they wanted to sell the home for twice what they paid for it without sprucing up the overgrown yard or doing anything else to enhance the salability of the property. Nothing Tony said could convince them to lower the sales price to a reasonable amount.

  Despite feeling like a pushover, he’d finally given in and run the open house ad in the newspaper. That was before everything had gone to hell. He’d scheduled the event with the intention of sticking Nick with the duty. When his cousin got himself killed, he’d considered canceling, but then decided it was the perfect place to hide out for a little
while. He didn’t think the house would attract many visitors and it would give him some needed time alone.

  Nick’s homicide case was front page news and a slew of reporters were dogging his every step, hoping for an exclusive on the “poor suffering family.” The media had played up the Indians’ problems with the dam—supposedly a contributing factor to George’s hatred of whites—and now relations with Celilo Village and the town were at an all-time low. Most of the town believed that George or Danny Longstreet had something to do with Pete Chambers’ murder, too. Not that Tony cared. The problem was Clarice. She had insisted that they cool their relationship until things settled down. Then she stopped seeing him altogether when the sheriff dropped the bomb that Sam Matthews was a Fed. Hard to fathom that news but at least it explained why he’d been at Monty’s with the other G-man in town. Just when he needed Clarice the most she was unavailable.

  Then there was the situation with Uncle Sol. Tony didn’t even want to think about the man and what he might do next. The fact that his own uncle had sent Nick to spy on him was bad enough, but making him escort the body back to Portland was almost more than Tony could take. At the funeral, Uncle Sol had threatened to shut down the business altogether. His excuse was that things in The Dalles were getting too dangerous and he didn’t want to take a chance on losing Tony, too. What a load of crap. All Uncle Sol cared about was losing money. Not that Tony wouldn’t be more than happy to quit slaving for his uncle, but he still lacked enough bread to buy Baker Bluff.

  For their part, the Indians were unhappy with the Baker Bluff site and the government bent over backwards to appease them by choosing another, more acceptable location. The town folk didn’t care one way or the other about where the Indians were buried, but they were outraged over the unprovoked murder of an innocent young man. The fact that Nick had just been trying to do a good deed by giving the old Indian a lift home only made his murder worse in people’s eyes. Clarice had told Tony that she knew the right way to frame the kid’s murder to their advantage and she had. Now that the property appeared within their reach again, she told him not to worry. They just had to be patient and it would all come together soon.

  So here he was, stuck in a stifling hot cracker box at the end of Dry Hollow Road, pondering why his life had taken such a turn. He’d sat in the tiny living room for two hours already and not even one lookee-loo had crossed the threshold. At this rate, the pint of Southern Comfort he’d been nipping on would be long gone by the time the Ramseys returned home. They hadn’t even bothered to wash their breakfast dishes or pick up the toys scattered across the threadbare carpet before they’d left with a cheery, “Good luck.” He was a great salesman with or without luck, but selling this over-priced shack would take a miracle.

  At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, Tony parted the frayed lace curtains at the front window to see who’d been foolish enough to stop. He hoped it wasn’t some eager-beaver reporter who’d tracked him down. He groaned at the sight of Sheriff Pritchard hustling out of his official vehicle. Tony would’ve preferred a reporter. The man’s leathery face was as white as the proverbial ghost. Whatever had the sheriff scurrying out here couldn’t be good news. Tony took a quick nip to fortify himself. He’d barely gotten the pint stashed in his briefcase when Pritchard came rushing into the room gasping for breath.

  “Hey,” Tony said. “No need to hurry. You’re first in line to buy this mansion.”

  The sheriff shivered despite the summer heat. “We’ve got a problem. A big problem.”

  Just what I need. Another problem. Tony sighed, wishing he’d taken a bigger swig from the bottle. “What now?” he asked.

  “George Stonefeather is in the hospital,” Pritchard said, slumping onto a tattered couch by the door.”

  Why Pritchard seemed to think that was Tony’s problem was beyond him. Tony shrugged. “So?”

  “Good God, man. Don’t you realize what this means?”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me,” Tony said, sighing wearily.

  “He’s under Federal jurisdiction now!” Pritchard shouted. “They’ve even got a guard at his hospital room door. The Feds, thanks to your friend Matthews, think he’s at risk from the protestors. When he interfered at the jail, I thought I could handle him, but he’s—”

  “The Feds?” Pritchard had Tony’s full attention now.

  “That’s what I said. The fuckin’ Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Pritchard leaned forward with his forearms on his knees. “Matthews will be all over this cockamamie case now—including a formal investigation into Nick’s death. Thanks to your murdering girlfriend and my part in the lousy cover-up, I’m facing serious jail time—and, in case you still don’t get it, you are, too.” He let that message sink in and then added, “Tell me something. Was the pussy worth it?”

  Tony whipped out the pint he’d stashed earlier and gulped the liquid with a fierce urgency.

  “I could use some of that,” Pritchard said, reaching for the bottle.

  The mind-numbing alcohol did nothing to alleviate the full-blown panic that this startling development had caused Tony. There was only one way to deal with it. He had to see Clarice. She’d know what to do. She always knew what to do. He tossed the nearly empty bottle to Pritchard, grabbed his briefcase and hustled to the door.

  “Wait,” the sheriff called after him. “Where’re you going?”

  Not to jail. Not now, not ever.

  ***

  Where the hell was she? When Tony couldn’t reach Clarice by telephone, he checked out all her usual haunts—Dizzy’s, Goldman’s Jewelry, the country club, their favorite room at Monty’s Motel, even Lila’s Dress Shoppe—but no one had seen her around for several days. His last stop was Pacific Savings & Loan. It wasn’t likely that she would be there, but he was running out of options. Maybe she’d gone to the bank to talk to Warren. God only knows why, unless it was to apply more pressure on him to loan them the rest of what they needed to buy Baker Bluff. If the old cocksucker were being stubborn, she’d pull out all the stops whenever and wherever she could. He had to find her even if it meant chatting up her lousy husband.

  Tony marched through the bank’s glistening glass doors and then paused to survey the interior of the spacious lobby. Clarice was nowhere in sight so he headed straight for Warren’s king-size desk. The pompous ass had the handcrafted mahogany wonder imported from Thailand when he made bank manager. Clarice said he liked the feeling of power that the desk represented. Only the truly powerless needed such trappings, as far as Tony was concerned. Warren wasn’t sitting in his high-priced executive chair and his desk top had none of the usual clutter. It didn’t look like the powerful man had been around for a while; even his fancy gold nameplate was missing. Tony ran his finger over the thin layer of dust atop the bare desk.

  A pear-shaped woman carrying a manila folder stuffed with paperwork approached him. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, you can. Where’s Warren?”

  “Mr. Warren Nestor?” she asked.

  Her prissy attitude annoyed him. “That’s right, sweetheart. You can tell him Mr. Antonio Rossi is here to see him,”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Nestor is no longer with us.”

  She made it sound like he’d died. Tony had no time to figure out whether her brains were scrambled or what. He shot her a no-nonsense look. “What do you mean, no longer with you?”

  The woman clutched the folder protectively against her flat chest. “Mr. Nestor resigned,” she said. “Rather suddenly, I might add.”

  The prune-faced broad wasn’t making a lick of sense but she didn’t seem like the type to kid around. She had to be mistaken. Warren loved his job. Loved it more than Clarice, or so she claimed. “Resigned?” To
ny asked. “Was there a problem or something?”

  “Certainly not,” she huffed. “Mr. Nestor is going into business for himself.”

  Too stunned to make nice, Tony demanded, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The woman bristled and pursed her thin lips together. “Perhaps you should speak with Mr. Prosser. He’s filling in as acting manager until Mr. Nestor’s replacement is hired.”

  “Just forget it,” Tony said. Once outside the bank, he hurried to his car and hopped inside. He’d never been to the Nestor’s home, but he knew exactly where it was in Fremont Heights. Panic had turned to anger as he sped across town to the shady, tree-lined development. All the bigwigs in The Dalles—lawyers, doctors, bankers, and such—lived in Fremont Heights. Not that there was a glut of professionals calling The Dalles home, but those who did lived in stately, large brick structures that exuded an air of moneyed privilege. It wasn’t uncommon to see a parade of housekeepers, Chinese gardeners, delivery boys, and other help coming and going throughout the day. Heaven forbid that the wives should stoop to physical labor of any sort. They were much too busy drinking cocktails at the country club or shopping in Portland.

  When he first came to town, Tony had courted the country club set until he finally got the message that his services would never be welcome in Fremont Heights. The owners had made it clear that any number of realtors from Portland would understand their needs better. It was snobby hogwash, but it didn’t matter in the long run. He’d done all right without them. The government workers had been more than willing to give him a fistful of business.

  As he pulled up to the Nestor’s red brick Tudor, he noticed a For Sale sign posted in the middle of the neatly trimmed lawn. A Sold banner was tacked diagonally across the front of the sign. What the hell? Tony hopped out of the convertible and strode up the sidewalk to the covered porch. Before he could knock on the door or ring the bell, he heard someone call out, “The Nestors aren’t home!” The speaker was a smartly dressed old lady in pearls and sensible shoes. Two bright spots of rouge highlighted her thin, sunken cheeks. She stood on the sidewalk holding onto a leash attached to a rag mop posing as a dog. The mutt was busy piddling on a fire hydrant.