I pulled back and looked over her shoulder. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not twenty feet away, Winona stood looking at us with her hands on her hips.
Chapter Twenty
Archie squealed and dashed off to greet Winona, but she spun around and started walking away at a rapid pace. My dog followed her, and I dropped Tracey’s hand and took a couple of steps in Winona’s direction. “Wait, Winona. This isn’t what it looks like.” The words sounded pathetically lame. I heard Tracey exhale a laugh and turned back to see her walking in the opposite direction. “Uh, good night, Tracey,” I said with equal lameness. She glanced back at me with a puzzled look but didn’t break stride.
I caught up with Winona half a block later. “Wait a minute, you’ve got this all wrong.”
She stopped abruptly and stooped to hug Archie, who was still squealing for attention. She looked up at me. “You told me you wanted to talk, but I see I came at the wrong time.”
“That was Tracey Thomas, the city councilwoman. I’m working a case with her. She came by just as I was about to eat, so I invited her in for dinner, so we could talk. That kiss meant nothing. It was her idea, not mine.”
She curled up one side of her mouth. “Sure it was. Since when do you cook dinner for your clients?”
“She’s not my client, and I told you what happened. Look, can we just go to either your place or mine and talk about this?”
She stood up, her jaw set. I could see the warrior side of her kicking in. “That’s what I wanted to do, but you were too busy.”
“Too busy? I’ve been waiting for you to call, trying to give you plenty of space. What the hell’s going on, anyway?”
She studied her boots that were still caked with North Dakota mud, then looked up at me, her almond eyes shiny with tears. “I’m sort of mixed up right now, Cal.”
“Who wouldn’t be, after what you’ve been through? Let me help you through this, Winona.”
She held me with her gaze, but there was little warmth in it. “I’m not sure you can, Cal.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugged and averted her eyes. “I’m not sure what I want anymore.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“I need some time, Cal.”
I was hurt and angry at the same time. “Okay, then.” I spun around and flicked my head at Archie. “Come on, boy.” Then over my shoulder, I said, “Let me know when you get things figured out.”
I walked away, hoping like hell she would chase after me, but she didn’t. My heart sank like a stone.
Later that night, Tracey called. “Jesus, Cal, I’m so embarrassed about what happened. I was a little drunk, you know, and shouldn’t have assumed anything.”
“That’s okay, I—”
“No, it’s not okay. It was my fault, and I apologize.” She chuckled softly. “Plying me with French wine’s never a good idea.”
I made a sound, well short of a laugh. “It wasn’t your fault, Tracey. My relationship with Winona has been a little rocky lately. She was on her way over to talk about it when she saw us.”
“Oh, God. I feel even worse. Would it help if I called her?”
“No, that wouldn’t help. If she doesn’t believe what I tell her, we’re not going to make it, anyway.”
“Of course,” she said. The line fell silent for several beats. “Do you want to talk about it?” When I still didn’t respond, she added, “I’m an expert on crashed relationships, Cal. It always helps to talk about it, believe me.”
I hardly knew Tracey Thomas, but she had a forthrightness that engendered a level of trust. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding and told her about Winona’s traumatic experience at Standing Rock, and how after she returned things went south.
When I finished Tracey said, “These are threatening times for women and minorities. Being both, like Winona, is doubly hard, to say nothing of the shock of what happened in North Dakota. She’s working through some heavy shit, Cal. Maybe you’re expecting more than she can give right now.”
“Yeah, that’s what my daughter said. I’ve given Winona a lot of space and gotten nothing back, not even the benefit of the doubt tonight.”
“This is probably more about her than you.”
We talked a while longer, but that was the gist of what she told me. Nothing I didn’t already know, but I needed to hear it just the same. We signed off with the tacit agreement to continue working together. This made sense, of course, because we needed each other as sources of information. But the thought of continuing to see her seemed fraught with risk from the standpoint of salvaging my relationship with Winona.
The next day at my law office in Dundee was a busy one, so I was able to keep myself somewhat distracted from the mess I’d made. At the first break, I called Marnie Stinson at the Yamhill County offices and told her I wanted to request a hearing on the County’s decision to allow gravel mining at McCallister. “On what grounds?” she asked.
“On the grounds that McMinnville Sand and Gravel and H and S are colluding on this deal. The time line evidence they presented is bullshit.”
“The Land Use Board will take the word of two long-standing businesses over your objections, Cal. Do you have any proof?”
“Uh, yeah, but I’m not ready to disclose anything yet,” I lied. The truth was I didn’t have squat for proof or even a clue about what to do next. But it would take time to schedule a hearing, I figured, and if I didn’t have something by then, it wouldn’t be from lack of trying. Marnie told me to write a letter requesting the hearing and coached me a little on what to say. I thanked her and signed off.
There’s nothing as unnerving as a leap of faith.
After my final conference call that afternoon, I was anxious to drive up to the Aerie, check things out, water some plants, and do some more laundry. However, before I left the office, I made a final phone call. Looking back, I’m not sure exactly what prompted me to call Helen Ferris at that particular time, but it certainly had to do with the visit I’d received from Turner and Avery the morning before, and the fact that I’d left my meeting with her feeling like there was something she wanted to tell me. Archie was at the back door, and when I sat back down to make the call, he gave me a doggie eye roll.
Ferris picked up on the third ring. “What do you want, Mr. Claxton?” she responded to my cheerful opening salvo.
“Well, I’m just wondering if you changed your mind, you know, about talking to me concerning Margaret Wingate’s will.”
The line went quiet, and I could hear classical music playing in the background. “Why would I want to talk to you again?”
I decided to go for it. “Because it’s the right thing to do, Mrs. Ferris. I think you know more than you’re telling me. And if you help me, I might be able to protect you.”
She laughed, but most of it stuck in her throat. “I couldn’t possibly do that.” I caught a quaver in her voice.
“Talking to me will beat talking to the police, believe me, Mrs. Ferris.”
She went silent again, and I could hear a familiar classical riff, Chopin, I think. I waited. “I can’t…talk to you.” Click. She hung up.
“Shit.”
I started to call her back but thought better of it. The phone was too easy to hang up. On the other hand, a face-to-face confrontation might freak her out even more. Or not. An hour later I stopped arguing with myself. I looked at Archie, whose ears came up when our eyes met. “You up for a trip to Vancouver, Big Boy?”
Of course he was.
Chapter Twenty-one
Traffic across the Interstate Bridge into Vancouver, Washington, that evening was snarled as usual. With Archie’s head thrust out the window, we crawled across the corroded steel behemoth, a testament to our crumbling infrastructure. As I caught glimpses of the water below, I pictured the colonies of houseboats on nearby Hayd
en Island and strung along both sides of the Columbia River. If I have to move from the Aerie, I thought, maybe I’ll check out a houseboat. What would it be like to live on the river? But that flight of fancy backfired as the reality of losing the Aerie crushed in on me. There really wasn’t any other place on the planet I wanted to live.
I parked down the street from Helen Ferris’ condo and told Archie to stay put. A porch light was on, along with interior lights in the vestibule and in an upstairs room—encouraging signs that she was still home. I rang the bell and waited, and when I got no response, lay on the bell a little longer the second time. Still nothing. Frustrated, I moved to one side of the door, glanced in through the glass panel, and drew in a sudden, sharp breath. Someone was lying on the staircase leading up to the second floor.
I tried the door—unlocked, so I let myself in. Helen Ferris lay facedown with her head jammed against the bottom newel post on the right side of the staircase, and her legs stretched up the stairs. One arm was crumpled under her, the other extended, the fingers splayed. A plastic laundry basket lay on its side between her head and the front door, its contents strewn across the entry floor. Her vacant, unblinking eyes and the horrible angle her head made with her body told me instantly that she was dead. Blood drained from my head for a moment. I fought through it and knelt down to check for a pulse to confirm what I already knew. Her lifeless body was warm. I touched my own arm, then hers, and couldn’t feel any difference.
My stomach turned a little as I realized this poor woman died moments ago.
I stood up, called 911, and was told not to touch anything and to wait on the front porch for the police. I glanced at my watch. I had three, maybe five minutes, tops, to take a look around. Okay, it wasn’t kosher to creep a death scene, and God knows it wasn’t my first time, but hell, I was already in the house. And, although it looked like Helen Ferris had taken an accidental fall while carrying the laundry, the timing of her death was suspicious, to say the least.
Why was the front door unlocked? Unusual for a woman living alone. I hurried through the house to the back door. It was not only unlocked but ajar. I flicked on the back porch light with a pen and looked into the empty yard. I started to turn back when I noticed something along the pathway leading to the garage—she had apparently taken my advice and planted the impatiens there, and they looked trampled on. I took a closer look and confirmed the delicate plants had been crushed underfoot.
Had someone gone out the back way and over the fence in a hurry? Why? Maybe somebody surprised them. Me?
Back in the house, I looked at my watch. Two minutes left. No time to go upstairs, which was just as well. How did I know the killer, if there was one, hadn’t retreated up the stairs? The kitchen was immaculate, except for a pizza box crammed into a wastebasket in the corner. A laptop and cell phone lay on the kitchen table, but there was no time to snoop. I heard sirens in the distance and started for the entry. A couple of pieces of opened mail sat on a spindly legged table between the front door and a marble stand containing two pearl-handled canes. One of the pieces of mail was from a nursing home called Windsor Terrace Memory Care, where Mr. Ferris was being cared for, I assumed. A quick glance told me it was a welcoming letter. Huh, I thought, looks like her husband just moved to a new facility. The sirens got louder, so I stepped out the door to wait for the police.
My interview with the Vancouver Police lasted for over an hour. Midway through they allowed me a break so I could let Archie out of the car to stretch his legs. The interview got interesting toward the end, when they started to probe my relationship with Ferris and why I called on her that particular evening. I wasn’t willing at this juncture to share my suspicion that Margaret Wingate’s death was a homicide, but at the same time wanted them to view Ferris’ death with more than the usual skepticism.
“I represent a client whose mother was killed in a hit-and-run in Portland back in March,” I explained, giving them Angela and Margaret Wingate’s names and walking them through the incident in some detail. “Mrs. Ferris was the secretary of the man who handled the will, a man named Melvin Turner. I came by this evening to ask her a few follow-up questions about the document.”
“Follow-up?” the lead detective, a man named Corbin McWhirter, asked. He had brushed-back salt-and-pepper hair, a fleshy nose, and a mouth turned down in a perpetual cop scowl.
“Yes. I talked to her once before, a couple of weeks ago. It was informal, not a deposition.”
“What’s the issue with the will?”
“It’s a little unusual,” I answered and went on to explain the sell-off provision for Wingate Properties and the protective clauses for Turner and Avery. “My client simply wants to ensure that those were, in fact, her mother’s last wishes,” I concluded.
McWhirter leaned in a little. “Is there some reason to believe they weren’t?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know at this point, but I had a feeling Mrs. Ferris knew something she wasn’t telling me. That’s why I came here tonight.”
McWhirter fixed me with his cop stare. “So you’re suggesting this might have been staged, Mr. Claxton, that someone killed Mrs. Ferris to keep her from talking?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s a strong possibility.” I wanted to tell him about the back door being ajar and the crushed impatiens, but instead I said, “It’s easy to fall down stairs, but I’m guessing it’s pretty hard to break your neck doing it. The front door wasn’t locked, and the body was warm, so maybe I surprised the killer and he went out the back.” I left it at that, feeling confident that he and his partner were the good, thorough cops they appeared to be.
I left that night after being told I would have to return to the Vancouver Police Station the next day to read over and sign the statement McWhirter recorded at the scene. The first thing I did back at the car was phone Angela. She hadn’t called in that day. When she answered, I sighed inwardly with relief. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing. Why didn’t you call me today?”
“My bad. I got busy. At the moment I’m delivering pot to the fine people of Portland. I just arrived at an apartment building on Division filled with people who recently moved here. They seem to have all the money these days.”
I didn’t think it was a good idea to frighten her by telling her about Ferris’ death right then, but I wanted to underline her need to be careful. And I knew better than to suggest she find a safer job or quit altogether, owing to her newly acquired financial resources. I settled for, “You don’t deliver in sketchy buildings or neighborhoods, do you?”
“It’s a judgment call. If I don’t like the looks of the place, I call and tell them to come out to the car. And I carry a penlight, too. It has a switchblade that’s wicked sharp.”
I almost laughed at that but let it slide. “Good. Keep it that way.” After we signed off, I sat there for a while thinking about Angela. My gut tightened a little, picturing her riding her bike during the day and delivering pot all over Portland at night. That was no recipe for personal safety, even in the best of times. And these were definitely not the best of times.
When Arch and I were finally headed back across the Columbia River, I wasn’t daydreaming about houseboats any more, or paying the price for daydreaming, either. No. I was focused on the situation at hand. The best lead I had, a person whom I believed was a potential key to the whole case, was now off the board permanently. I hardly knew Helen Ferris, but I felt the same outrage that I did for Margaret Wingate. I felt something else, too. Not guilt, because I didn’t know yet how this came about. But I couldn’t help wondering if my intervention caused Helen to rethink her actions, and God forbid, maybe she’d said something to Turner or whomever had gotten her involved in the forgery. That would explain why someone decided she had to die.
In any case, her death was a setback, but if I was right—that it was no acc
ident—then at least the battle lines were now more clearly drawn, and the contours of the threat I faced more starkly etched. And I realized something else, too. The killer was as cunning as he was cold-blooded.
It wasn’t a comforting thought.
Chapter Twenty-two
“I’ve checked you out, Mr. Claxton. You may have solved some crimes over in Oregon, but I can assure you we don’t need your assistance here in Vancouver.” It was the next day, and I was deep into my second interview with Detective McWhirter. It wasn’t going well.
“Look, Detective, all I’m saying is don’t be too quick to assume it was an accident. The front door was unlocked and the body still warm. Did you find anything suspicious toward the back of the house or in the backyard?”
McWhirter’s expression went from scowl to annoyed scowl. “I’m asking the questions here, and I’ll decide whether to classify this as a suspicious death or not.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just making the point that the killer could have heard me and gone out the back way.”
McWhirter’s eyes narrowed down, and his annoyed scowl grew more intense. “You already mentioned that. Why are you trying to lead me? Did you by any chance look back there before we arrived? Tell me you didn’t crush those flowers on the walkway, Mr. Claxton.”
Shit. Overplayed my hand. “I didn’t do anything to disturb your crime scene,” I said, summoning a look of righteous indignation. It was a true statement, as far as it went.
McWhirter paused for a moment while staring a hole in me. “Okay,” he said, “let’s go back over this will business one more time.” That took another fifteen minutes, and as I was finally leaving the interview room, McWhirter said, “You were wrong, you know. People, particularly old people, break their necks on stairs all the time. Look it up, Mr. Claxton.”
Moving Targets Page 13
