Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  There’s an extra page somewhere.

  I sat back down. Something wasn’t right. Since the Testimonium and Attestation were together on a single page, the body of the will was one more page than it should have been. No question. I looked through the will again. The body would be the easiest section to remove and replace with something else, since that act would only require forging Margaret Wingate’s initials.

  I leaned back, laced my fingers behind my head, and studied the textured paint on the ceiling of my study for a few moments. Margaret Wingate’s will was not “by the book,” after all. Was this an innocent clerical error or something more sinister?

  Chapter Twelve

  I stood at the kitchen window the next morning, sipping a coffee and watching the fog burn off in the valley. By the time I finished the cup, only the mist hovering above the Willamette River was left, a gray snake winding through the valley. I was grinding beans for a second cup when the shock wave of the first blast passed under my feet like a subway train. The house creaked, and I saw a puff of plaster dust fall from a corner in the ceiling. The second blast was stronger, rattling the cupboards and sloshing the coffee in my cup.

  “Damn,” I said as a plume of dust rose in the quarry, and the beep beep beep of a front-loader kicked in. I went out on the porch for a better look, just in time to hear the deep growl of the rock crusher starting up and to see another plume—this one a black swirl of combusted diesel fuel—rise in the sky.

  I stood there in disbelief. Gravel mining in McCallister Quarry had recommenced and Claxton’s Aerie had a front row seat.

  That’s when I thought of Archie. I followed the porch around to the front of the house and called him, but he didn’t come. I trotted down to the mailbox, calling his name all the way, but didn’t see him. I jogged back to the house, got in the car, and at the mailbox took a right in the direction of the cemetery. Surely he would run away from the source of the blasts, I figured.

  I found him standing next to a large stone that marked the grave of Alexander Johnson, Gertie’s great grandfather. His ears were down, and he was still panting. When he saw me, his ears rose a little, but he came to me slowly, like he was ashamed of having run away. I took a knee and embraced him, relieved that he was no longer shaking. “It’s okay,” I breathed into his ear. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  Then I realized that was the last place he wanted to be.

  “You have no right to be mining at McCallister,” I said after introducing myself to Mason Goodings, the president of McMinnville Sand and Gravel, and describing the situation. It was twenty-five minutes later, and I’d just been shown into his office by a hesitant secretary.

  The borderline obese man with a round face and eyes in a perpetual squint said, “I’m sorry that our operation’s inconveniencing you and your dog, Mr. Claxton, but I can assure you we have every legal right to be mining at that site. This county’s growing fast and high-quality aggregate’s an essential ingredient.”

  I told him his grandfathered status at McCallister had expired and that I could prove it, but this didn’t seem to ruffle him, and he gave me no insight into what he thought their legal basis was. He did tell me they planned to mine twelve hours a day and seven days a week. I said, “I’ll see you in court,” and stomped out.

  On the way back to Dundee, I reached Marnie Stinson. “I’m sorry, Cal. I was going to call you this morning,” she said after I dumped my bucket. “It looks like they might have a legitimate position. They’re claiming that after they shut down they continued to sell inventory from McCallister for the next twelve months. That means that, technically, they’ve only been shut down for eleven years and ten months, just under the twelve-year cutoff.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I shot back. “Selling gravel after the fact can’t be the same as running a mining operation.”

  A long pause ensued before she told me that, yes, it was the same, that the question had been litigated and was settled law. “I’m sorry, Cal. It doesn’t look like you can stop them. Mining interests in Oregon usually get their way.”

  On the way back to Dundee, I returned a call from Gertie, who took the devastating news with predictable stoicism. “Well,” she said, “we took it before, and we can take it again.” Then she sighed into the phone. “But what about Archie?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “good question. I don’t think this is what he signed up for.”

  By the time we got back to the Aerie the mining operation was in full swing, with the ever-present back-up beeping, the whining engines and whooshing jake brakes of trucks coming and going, and, in the background, the steady rumble of blue basalt being crushed—a sound not unlike a distant whitewater river. Even in the absence of blasting, Archie was intimidated and didn’t want to get out of the car. I didn’t feel much differently.

  Our sanctuary was under attack, and I didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  I was distracted but managed to get some work done at my office that day. Between clients, I called Marnie back, and she agreed to get me whatever information she could on when and where the alleged gravel sales had occurred. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the information, but I sure as hell wasn’t going down without a fight.

  I was due at Caffeine Central the next day, which was a relief because being at the Aerie during mining was unthinkable, especially for Arch, whose only coping mechanism was to bolt. After a final conference call, I left him in the office, drove to the Aerie and hurriedly packed enough clothes for the weekend, then looped back to pick him up. On the way into Portland I called Angela and told her I wanted to talk to her.

  “I’m at home right now,” she said. “Why don’t you stop by? I’m on Killingsworth, in Northeast.” She gave me the street number.

  An hour later, I parked a half block down from her place, an old Craftsman that had seen much better days. Angela was sitting between two tapered columns on the front porch, wearing a pair of shorts, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt with “Resist” written across a clenched fist. A street bike leaned against the porch enclosure next to her. Archie went to her like a long-lost friend, and she laid a sketchpad and pencil down to fuss over him.

  “Your bike?”

  “Yeah, I have an old Honda I use for work at night, but during the day I try to use the bike as much as possible.”

  I glanced at the pad, which showed the sketch of a woman jogging. “You draw, too?”

  She looked up. “Sort of. I always start a new project with sketches until I get the concept right.” She picked up the pad and closed it, making it clear she didn’t want to discuss the sketch.

  I looked around at the neighborhood. Angela’s place looked like the best-maintained house on the block. She watched me, then swept a hand dramatically. “Inner Northeast. Beats the snobby West Hills any day.”

  I chuckled. “I love these old houses. They have great bones.”

  She laughed. “Great bones, maybe, but not much else. This place sucks, but it’s relatively cheap. I have five roommates. Four of us have bedrooms. The last one in lives in the basement with the mice.”

  “Are you planning to move?”

  She looked past me, down the block. “I haven’t faced up to that yet. I like this neighborhood, even though there’s a crack house down at the corner, and this is disputed territory between two gangs.” Her look turned serious. “I’d feel like a traitor, you know? I mean, this turf’s worth fighting for.” She paused. “But I’m sure you didn’t come to talk about real estate. What’s happening?”

  I described my meetings with Brice Avery and Melvin Turner. When I finished I said, “So, they both agree with you that your mother’s will is pretty reasonable, all things considered.” She shrugged, and I continued, “One thing struck me—Avery said that your mother quibbled a bit with the North Waterfront Project but didn’t really object.”

  Her eyes got big, her face incredulou
s. “That’s such bullshit. She hated that project and wanted it redirected.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what she told me. She called it Disneyland Northwest.” Another shrug. “But Brice is a smooth talker. I don’t know, maybe he convinced her. I’m sure it’ll make a shitload of money for the company and put a bunch of hard hats to work.”

  I considered that. “Are things pretty much the way they were at the West Hills house when your mom died?”

  “Yeah. The gardener still comes, and I stop by to pick up the mail, but I haven’t been inside since it happened.”

  “Would you mind if I looked around?”

  “Not at all. I’ll get the keys.” She went inside, taking the bike with her.

  On the way there she asked me what I was looking for.

  I shrugged. “I’m not really sure—certainly anything pertaining to your mom’s will and her activities before the accident. I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends.”

  She gave me a look, making it clear she knew I was still keeping my cards close to my chest. But she let it slide again. I took that as an expression of trust.

  A magnificent, turn-of-the-twentieth-century brick Georgian with a white-trimmed, semicircular portico, the Wingate house exhaled a cool, musty breath when Angela opened the massive front doors. She hesitated for a moment, then plunged in. “Mom’s study is back through here.” She led me to a small alcove off the dining room. She turned her back with a pained expression on the family pictures covering one wall. “I can’t stand to look at those.”

  “This won’t take long,” I assured her. I checked the bookshelves lining an entire wall and also the drawers in a fine mahogany library table that doubled as a desk. Nothing of interest. A cabinet in the corner had neatly filed financial records, tax information, a load of family memorabilia and correspondence, and in the bottom drawer, a file marked “Will.” I extracted two copies of Margaret Wingate’s will from the file. They were copies of the will I had examined. “Do you know where the original copy of the will is?”

  “I think Melvin must have it. He had me let him in so that he could retrieve it.”

  “Did you see him do that?”

  “Yeah, I was standing right there.” She nodded toward the file. “He took the original and the extra copies, too, I think.”

  “When?”

  “Right after Mom was killed. The next day.”

  “Did you look through the copies?”

  “No. I really didn’t want to.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Did your mom have a computer?”

  “Yeah, a MacBook.”

  “What about an appointment book?”

  “Sure. There’s a room off the kitchen she used a lot, too. They’re probably there.”

  That room had a computer—but it was an old HP that contained nothing but recipes filed in various folders and a collection of digital photos. There was no appointment book and the drawers of a built-in desk contained nothing of interest, either. We worked our way through the rest of the downstairs rooms but came up empty.

  I followed her up an elegant, curved staircase to the second floor. The master bedroom was done in earth tones and had a carpet so thick it practically hid my shoes, but we found no computer or appointment book or anything else that might shed light on Margaret’s last days. After going through an antique jewelry box on the dresser, I said, “You should probably put the jewelry in a safe deposit box. Some of it looks pretty valuable.”

  Angela shrugged predictably. “It’s all insured, according to Melvin.”

  A large walk-in closet separated the bedroom from the bath. I looked through four designer handbags resting on a shelf. Empty. “She must have been using a purse,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “Good question,” Angela said. “I don’t see her favorite one, a leather bag with a shoulder strap.” I stepped into the bathroom to look around, and Angela called out. “Found it. It was under her robe hanging on the door.” She handed me the purse, which was packed with personal items, and looked away. I took a cursory look, opening her mother’s wallet last. Front and center was a snapshot of Angela carrying a sign at the Women’s March. The sign read “Bitches Get Shit Done.”

  I showed Angela the photo, and her eyes welled up and overflowed. “Oh, shit.”

  “Your mom was clearly very proud of you.”

  She studied her boots, which had taken a couple of direct teardrop hits. “Yeah, well, I can’t understand why.”

  I was putting the checkbook back after scanning through it, when a slip of paper with a grocery list in Margaret Wingate’s left-slanted handwriting fell out. On the back she’d written the names Fred Poindexter and Tracey Thomas along with a phone number for each. I knew Thomas was a city councilwoman and thought I’d heard of Poindexter but couldn’t remember who he was. I put the slip of paper in my shirt pocket. We went through the rest of the second floor without finding anything else of interest. “Could your mom’s computer be in the shop?” I asked.

  “It’s a Mac. What are the chances?”

  Back on the first floor, I checked the windows. They were all locked except for a small one in a half bath. The tile floor of the room was clean and shiny so that the two small, brown shell fragments I noticed stood out. I let myself out the kitchen door and checked below the window. The area had been mulched with crushed pecan shells.

  I came back in and locked the window. Angela, who’d been watching me, said, “What was that all about?”

  I showed her the pecan shells I’d picked up off the floor. “I think someone came in through this unlocked window and left these behind.”

  Her big eyes got bigger. “A burglar?”

  “Yeah, but not in the conventional sense. He wasn’t interested in your mom’s jewelry or any of the other valuables in the house. I think he took your mom’s computer, her datebook, and probably anything else he didn’t want us to find.” And, maybe the burglar replaced the wills in the study with new versions, I thought but didn’t say.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “This is getting weird.”

  I had to agree. Weird, indeed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angela peppered me with questions on the way back from our search of her mother’s house. I still wasn’t prepared to tell her everything—particularly my questions about the will. No way I wanted any of that getting back to Melvin Turner, but I figured she needed to know about the Lexus and Leonard Bateman, so I filled her in. “So, this Lexus that some dude named Lenny the Fox stole in L.A. gets delivered to a crusher an hour and a half after Mom was hit,” she said at one point. “Then he winds up dead in a motel that night.” I nodded. “Couldn’t that just be a coincidence?”

  “Yeah, that’s possible. As I said, Lenny’s death was suspicious, but I’ve got nothing to connect it to your mother’s death, except the timing. I’ve got some inquiries out on the man seen with him that night, but nothing’s come back yet.”

  “And now you think someone went through mom’s house and took her computer.”

  “Yeah, it looks that way. Look, Angela, until we get a handle on this, I want you to pay extra attention to your surroundings. If you see anything or anyone that doesn’t look right, you need to tell me right away.” I hesitated, because I didn’t want to frighten her, but added, “Why don’t you use your car to get around during the day for a while?”

  Her eyes got big, and she laughed. “No fricking way! Why would I do that?”

  “It would get you off the streets with your bike.”

  She drew her face into a defiant look that took me back to scenes with my daughter. “Have you noticed the traffic in this town? And lack of parking spaces? I’m not doing that,” she said with finality. Then she smiled. “Besides, I’d be a moving target.”

  So was your mom, I thought but didn’t say. I should have known. Caution simply
wasn’t in Angela Wingate’s DNA. When I left that afternoon, I did manage to extract a promise that she would check in with me every day. It was a start.

  Later that afternoon Archie and I were busy in Winona’s apartment in the Pearl. I was watering her plants, and he was on a general sniff-around. Suddenly he stopped, his ears came up, and he barked a single note as a key rattled in the front door. I swung around, and there was Winona. After a long embrace I managed to say, “Welcome back. I didn’t kill a single plant.”

  Winona returned a wan smile instead of the laugh I expected. “I can’t thank you enough for taking care of things, Cal. It was such a relief knowing the apartment was in good hands.”

  I would’ve preferred a passionate kiss over a heartfelt thank you, but I let it ride. She dropped to one knee and hugged Archie, who stood next to her wagging his butt and making little whimpering sounds. Was it just me, or did my dog get a warmer reception than I had? She slumped down in a big leather armchair and put a grimy boot on the matching hassock. Her raven hair lacked its customary sheen and was pulled straight back, as if in haste. Her almond eyes were puffy and had little half-moons of discoloration under them. “God, I’m tired.”

  I took her bags up to her bedroom platform, then circled through the kitchen and poured us each a glass of wine. I handed her a glass and touched its rim with mine. “Santé.”

  “Santé,” she replied mechanically and without making eye contact. “The plane was delayed five hours in Salt Lake City.” She shook her head. “I didn’t need that.”

  I drank some wine. “Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve picked you up.”

  “I got a ride from Hal Lightfeather. I figured you’d be busy, you know, a weekday.”

  “You hungry? I could go get some food and fix us a good meal.”