Moving Targets Read online

  “Yep. That’s the plan.”

  I kept my cool. “How does the mining work?”

  The tall technician stepped forward. “Typically, you blast, skip-load the hopper with rock fragments, crush them in the guts of this thing, and haul the aggregate away in trucks. Demand’s high right now, so they’ll probably run a twelve-hour operation. Maybe two hundred trucks a day in and out of here.”

  “That seam of basalt’s good for six, eight years of mining,” the other tech chimed in.

  I swallowed hard and pointed in the direction of the Aerie. “I live in that farmhouse you’re aiming for. Does Patterson Engineering realize that this is going to be an illegal operation, that McMinnville Sand and Gravel’s not permitted to mine this quarry?”

  They looked at each other, then back at me as the mood downshifted. “Hey, we’re just here to get this thing running, but I hear they’re grandfathered in,” the tall tech said.

  “Patterson wouldn’t touch the job if it wasn’t legal,” the other tech added.

  I handed them each a business card with “Attorney at Law” on it. “Look, I know you guys are just doing your jobs, but this mine’s been idle for over twelve years. Grandfather’s dead. Tell your bosses at Patterson that if this rig starts up, they’re complicit in breaking the law.” With that I turned, motioned for Arch to join me, and walked away.

  “It’s a done deal,” the taller tech called after me. “No way you can stop this, dude.”

  I heard the other tech chuckle under his breath, “Another NIMBY bites the dust.”

  I kept walking and let the color rising in the back of my neck be my response. NIMBY? Not in my backyard. I hadn’t heard that acronym in a long time, but I had to admit that it fit. You’re damn right, not in my backyard.

  “No, I’m not kidding,” I said to Marnie Stinson, my contact at the County Planning Commission. “They’ve moved a humongous rock crusher into McCallister.” It was Monday morning. I’d taken Arch out and then dashed across 99W to the Bake My Day for a coffee and pain au chocolat break, and was making calls from a back table.

  “Are they crushing rock?”

  “Not yet, but they sure as hell intend to. I checked with my neighbor, Gertrude Johnson. She’s been living next to the quarry most of her life. She told me they stopped mining two months short of thirteen years ago.”

  “Ten months over the limit. If they start up without a permit they’ll be in deep doo-doo.”

  “Good. I’m driving over to McMinnville right now to tell them that in person.”

  Marnie paused. “Uh, probably not a good idea, Cal. They won’t listen to you. They’re notoriously callous about citizen concerns. Let me work it at my end.”

  I agreed, but only reluctantly, and shook off a feeling of uneasiness by beginning to work the new angle I had on Angela’s case. I called Melvin Turner and was put through to his voice-mail, where I informed him that my client had requested me to look into the circumstances surrounding her mother’s will. “Angela realizes she may have been a bit naïve about the process,” I explained, “and after examining the document, I have a few questions for you and some for your staff. I hope we can handle this informally and avoid the need for depositions.” I couldn’t help smiling when I hung up, knowing the message would irritate the hell out of Turner.

  Brice Avery’s assistant put me right through, and when I explained who I was and what I wanted to talk about, he agreed to meet with me at the Wingate Properties headquarters in downtown Portland the following Wednesday. Another midweek trip to Portland. I was starting to feel like a yo-yo.

  After dinner that evening, the call I’d been waiting for came in. “Hey,” Winona said, “sorry I hung up on you. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “No, it was my fault. It wasn’t my place to say anything. I know better than to tell you what to do.” We both chuckled at that, and an awkward silence followed. Finally, I said, “Are you okay?”

  “No, not really. I’m tired and I’m sick, sick at heart.” She expelled a breath. “I’m Native American. We’re supposed to be stoic, right? You know, roll with the injustices, live to fight another day. But this is a bitter pill, Cal. We had an injunction; we had them stopped, but that ended with the stroke of the Great White Father’s pen in Washington.”

  Anger tinged with a feeling of guilt washed over me. “Any word on the appeals?”

  “No, nothing yet. Our best shot’s the one filed by Earth Justice, but even they say it’s a candle in a hurricane.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I’m staying until we get the final word.” She sighed long and deep. “I miss you, Cal.”

  “I miss you, too, Winona. Stay safe.”

  That was it. I felt let down but grateful for the contact. I wanted to say much, much more, but knew instinctively to keep my mouth shut. I sensed Winona was in a dark place. Better to let her find her way back, a journey she’d do on her own or not at all. Would the anger she felt somehow color her attitude toward me? I hoped not, but guilt by association seemed a valid threat.

  That night I dreamed I saw Winona across a wide street, but when I started to cross over to her, the street became a raging river that threatened to sweep me away. I jerked awake just as I lost my footing in the swift current. I must have cried out because Arch came over from his mat in the corner to console me. I swung my legs out of bed and sat there stroking his broad back until I calmed down.

  When I got back into bed, my dog lay down next to me on the floor instead of going back to his place in the corner. It was a show of support.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday morning broke clear, so Arch and I got a run in before heading off to Portland. On the way in, Marnie Stinson called me back. “Our legal counsel contacted McMinnville Sand and Gravel and asked for clarification of their intentions at McCallister,” she told me. “He cited neighborhood concerns as the reason. Haven’t heard back from them yet, but they won’t dare start up now. He said you need to put a letter together substantiating your claim that they’ve been idle for more than twelve years. Can you do that?”

  “You bet.” I thanked her, then called Gertie and told her what I needed.

  “No problem,” she said, “I know several old-timers on the hill who’ll back me up on the timing. That was a red-letter day when they stopped mining. Nobody’s forgotten it, I guarantee you.”

  I felt better then, although I still wondered why they’d moved that expensive hunk of machinery back into the quarry. Were they really that reckless, or did they know something I didn’t?

  After finding a parking space on SW 4th and cracking the windows for Arch, I cut through Keller Fountain Park on my way to the KOIN Tower. Portland had great parks, and this one, with a full acre of cascading waterfalls and pools, was my hands-down favorite. But on this particular morning I was laser-focused on my meeting in ten minutes with Brice Avery, CEO of Wingate Properties.

  The firm occupied the entire fifteenth floor of the building, with an understated entry leading into a reception area decorated with photographs of their completed work and a scale model of the North Waterfront Project I’d read about. Nested between meticulous replicas of the Steel and Fremont bridges, the model consisted of low-rise residential units along the waterfront, high-rise office space further back, and what looked like some kind of retail mall near the entry. A yacht harbor ran along the river, a mini-golf course anchored the north end, and in the center of it all, a cylindrical behemoth rose above everything like a gilded phallus. “Tower North.”

  “I want to live there.”

  I turned and looked into a pair of vivacious blue eyes. “In the tower?”

  The woman laughed. “Of course. At the top.” Her name was Brittany. She was Brice Avery’s assistant, and she’d come to escort me to his corner office. I followed her shapely figure down the hall.

  Avery greeted
me cordially, and while Brittany hovered, said, “Join me in some coffee?” I told him I would, and he sent his assistant off to get us some. He showed me to a black leather couch and sat down in a matching chair across from me. Lean and stern-eyed with short, gray-flecked hair and a manicured three-day stubble, he moved with a kind of lithe quickness that people of high energy often exhibit. “So, Cal, you’re Angela’s attorney,” he said with a rueful smile. “She’s a pistol, that one. What’s on your mind?”

  I smiled at that. “I appreciate your meeting with me. As you can understand, the death of Margaret Wingate came as quite a shock to Angela. Now that she’s had some time to absorb the tragedy, she has some questions about her mother’s estate and how it was handled.”

  “Margaret’s death came as a shock to me and our entire company as well. What are Angela’s intentions with this inquiry?”

  “I think inquiry may be too strong a word. I’m sure you agree that Mrs. Wingate’s will is unusual. Angela simply wants to confirm that the will reflects her mother’s true intentions.”

  At that point, Brittany returned with our coffees, served old-school in bone china cups on a silver tray. Avery set his coffee on the burnished hardwood table between us, dropped in a sugar cube, and stirred. “I’d say Angela did pretty well, considering what she put her parents through. She got the house and the investments, right?”

  I nodded. “Angela has straightened out her life, and she and Mrs. Wingate had re-established a strong relationship. Did Mrs. Wingate discuss any of the terms of the will with you?”

  “No, she did not. It was a real shocker when I heard what she’d done. I knew she loved the company and wanted to see the work go forward.” He looked away, and for a moment I thought he was going to tear up.

  “You mentioned the work going forward. Did you and Mrs. Wingate discuss the projects you’re engaged in here?”

  He sipped some coffee. “Oh, in a general way, yes, but Margaret wasn’t all that interested in real estate development. She had her charities. That was her focus.”

  “I see. She gave you a lot of autonomy in running the company after Charles Wingate passed on?” He nodded, and I leveled my eyes on him. “What about in the last couple of months? Did she push for any changes?”

  His eyes held, but a muscle along his jaw line flexed ever so slightly. “Well, she did raise some questions about the North Waterfront Project, but we were down the road on that one. Hell, we already had a green light from the Design Commission and the backing of the Development Commission. By and large, I’d say she was delighted with the direction of the company. This promises to be our best year ever.”

  “Did you broach selling the company with Mrs. Wingate recently?”

  He shot me a so-what look. “Inquiries come in frequently. Portland’s hot. Yeah, I think I talked to her about some interest six or eight weeks ago.” He laughed. “She made it clear she wasn’t interested in selling.”

  “Did Mrs. Wingate mention that she was revising her will?”

  “No, she didn’t. But she wouldn’t have. It was certainly none of my business.”

  “Did she discuss any of the provisions in the will with you?” He shook his head. “Did Melvin Turner discuss anything relating to the will with you?”

  “No, not before the fact. Like I said, Margaret Wingate’s will was none of my business. I was blown away when I heard what she’d done.” He met my eyes. “I feel a great obligation to make this company everything she wanted it to be.”

  I nodded. “Any buyers on the horizon?”

  “Let’s just say there’s interest.” He sipped his coffee and added, “Look, Cal, I guess I can’t blame Angela for questioning things, and I’m going to assume you’re a stand-up guy, but under the circumstances, I think things worked out about as well as they could have. Angela now has a tidy nest egg, the work at Wingate Properties will go forward unabated, and Margaret’s beloved charities will get an enormous cash infusion when the company sells.”

  I nodded again. “Any concern a buyer might balk because of the unique arrangement set out in the will for you and Melvin Turner?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue. Most buyers will be looking at the bottom line and how it got there.” He smiled again, revealing a sense of confidence that stopped just short of arrogance. “Mel and I know this business, and we know Portland. I think we’ll win that one.”

  I wrapped it up with Avery after a few more questions, and Brittany sashayed me out. The sun was hanging tough, so I hustled to the car, let Archie out, and walked him over to Keller Fountain Park. We found a bench in the warm sunshine. As Arch watched a cross-section of hearty Portlanders wading in the pools, I thought about Avery’s comments. I had to admit that what he’d said about the outcome of Margaret Wingate’s will—that it was a win for everyone involved—made a lot of sense. The only thing that bothered me was what Avery said about his relationship with Margaret. Were things really as harmonious as he claimed? Not according to what Angela told me. Maybe she exaggerated—although there didn’t seem to be any reason why she would—or maybe Avery played the disagreement down.

  If he did, he was hiding something.

  My second meeting with Melvin Turner went even worse than the first. He met me in the lobby of Turner, Ross, and Steinman this time and showed me to a small conference room. His pudgy, clean-shaved cheeks were slightly flushed. “What is this crap, Claxton?” he began after closing the door. “You have no grounds whatsoever to be challenging Margaret Wingate’s will. This is an outrage, and you’re skating on very thin legal ice.”

  I smiled and raised an open hand. “Easy, Melvin. I’m not accusing you of anything, and I’m not challenging anything. I’m simply here to ask a few informal questions. You know very well that Margaret Wingate’s will is somewhat unusual. It benefits both you and Brice Avery and cuts my client out of a multimillion-dollar asset. I’m—”

  “Margaret wanted it that way,” he cut in as a vein surfaced in his neck and his eyes bulged a little. “She wanted Wingate Properties to carry on and leave a substantial sum to her favorite charities. I think what we came up with meets both those criteria. And she wanted Angela to be well taken care of, which she is now. I knew Angela was selfish, but I never expected this.” He stopped there and shot me a withering look. “Or is this your doing, Claxton?”

  Ignoring the question, I said, “I know it’s an imposition, but I’d like to talk to the people who witnessed the will-signing, uh, Arnold Percy and Helen Ferris. We can do it this way, or proceed more formally if you prefer.”

  Turner dragged a hand down his cheek absently. “Helen’s retired now. I suppose you can talk to Arnold for a couple of minutes. Wait here. I’ll send him in.”

  “Thanks, Melvin,” I said, flashing a cordial smile. He nodded curtly, and at the door said, “You’d be well advised to drop this now. I’m keeping a complete record of this entire fiasco.”

  “Thanks, Melvin. I’ll consider that as a piece of friendly advice and not a threat.”

  The chat with Arnold Percy lasted only a few minutes. Yes, he witnessed the signing of Margaret Wingate’s will and, yes, she seemed in complete control of her faculties during the time of the signing, and, no, he wasn’t privy to any of the discussions leading up to the will. I thanked him and found my way out. I didn’t expect to learn anything from Percy, and I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t. But the timing of Helen Ferris’ retirement caught my attention.

  Back at the Aerie that night I got a dinner nod from Gertie, something I never turn down since she’s a fabulous cook. She served up comfort food—beef stew, biscuits from scratch, and a pear-hazelnut tart for desert that blew the doors off. But the meal came with a price—a game of Scrabble in which I was crushed, as usual. However, I did leave that night with the names, addresses, and phone numbers of six people living in the surrounding Red Hills are
a who would attest to the fact that gravel mining had ceased at McCallister quarry on June 15, 2004, twelve years and ten months ago.

  Later that night in my study I pulled Angela’s copy of her mother’s will from my briefcase and attached a sticky note to it, on which I jotted “copy” to remind myself to do so and get the original back to her. I don’t know why, but I began leafing through it again. I had no conscious reason for doing this except for the fact that it wasn’t paginated, which was somewhat unusual. Even given that, the will now seemed much less an issue than it had earlier.

  I took another look at the next-to-last page, which consisted of two parts. The first, a “Testimonium,” read “In witness whereof, I have signed and do declare this instrument to be my last will and testament, this 8th day of March, 2017, at Portland, Oregon.” It was duly signed “Margaret A. Wingate” in clear, left-leaning cursive. The second part, an “Attestation,” read “This instrument consisting of thirteen (13) typewritten pages, including this page, was on the above date and in our presence, signed by Margaret Wingate.” Below this were the signatures of the two witnesses, Percy and Ferris, and their addresses.

  I turned to the addendum, an “Affidavit of Attesting Witnesses,” which stated again that Percy and Ferris witnessed the signing of the will and that they believed Margaret A. Wingate “was of the age of 18 years or older, of sound mind and memory, and was acting voluntarily.” This was signed by the two witnesses and dated and stamped by a Notary Public.

  All by the book, I concluded once again.

  I scanned the body of the will a final time. The lower right-hand corner of each page bore the initials MAW and the date in the same slanting cursive as Margaret’s signature. I dropped the document on my desk and was halfway out the door when something hit me. I went back and counted the initialed pages in the body again. Thirteen. I read through the Attestation again. It said the will has thirteen pages, including the Attestation page. But the document in front of me, if one included the Attestation page, added up to fourteen pages.