Not Dead Enough (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

The sun reappeared that afternoon, bathing the valley in splendid light and inspiring a throng of songbirds whose choruses seemed to merge like some improvised jazz tune. I sent Santos Araya back out to continue the weeding. After he left with his father I went out to the garden to look around. I couldn't find a trace of a weed, and he'd even left some tender shoots of something that looked like lettuce that must have wintered over. I'd given him a tough job, a kind of test, I suppose, and he'd done a much better job at it than I could have. He'd left with the copy of Hatchet, too, promising to bring it back the following week.

I glanced at my watch and realized it was time to get ready for a dinner party Jason Townsend had invited me to. He'd called two days earlier, saying it was an informal gathering of some of his advisors and potential supporters for his Senate run. Apparently, Winona wasn't kidding when she told me Jason was impressed with me. I wasn't sure why. After all, I wasn't in any position to write him a big check.

I showered, shaved, and put on a striped button-down with long sleeves that covered my bandage, my best pair of jeans and, after giving them a quick buff, my loafers. I fed Arch and headed down to Dundee, where I dashed into my office and grabbed my blazer.

The Townsend estate was on the twisting road that paralleled the Willamette River between Newberg and Wilsonville, twenty-some miles south of Portland. It was dark when I arrived at the gate, but I knew the place, at least from the outside. I'd passed it many times without realizing who owned it.

The massive wrought iron gate had a keypad security system and a camera in a steel tube mounted off to the side like a cannon protecting a harbor. The gate was open, and a man dressed better than me was talking to a couple in a brand new, metallic silver Range Rover. As the big SUV pulled away, I moved up in my twelve year old BMW, wishing I'd stopped at the car wash on the way over. The man found my name on his clipboard and waved me through.

The drive in was maybe a quarter of a mile and on my left several acres of pasture land stretched into the darkness. I figured the half dozen or so horses that normally grazed there were in the stable, a massive stone structure sporting twin cupolas with elegant copper weathervanes. The main house—awash in dramatic landscape lighting—looked like it'd been brought over block by block from a sixteenth-century village in southern France. A steep, slate roof fell away to a stone façade with jutting turrets and a sweeping front staircase that led to an arched portico. The couple ahead of me had already entered, so I rapped on the imposing double doors at the top of the stairs, wondering how many trees in the rainforest had been felled to make them. A slender, elegantly dressed woman with platinum blond hair and eyes the color of the ocean opened the door. Mid-fifties, I guessed. She was so right for the setting, I wondered if she'd come with the house.

I introduced myself, and she flashed a lovely if somewhat practiced smile. “So nice to meet you, Cal. I'm Valerie Townsend, Royce's wife. Please come in. The guests are in the study.” She led me down a long hall filled with fine antiques and original art, her lovely hips swaying in the manner of all alluring women.

When we entered the study, Jason Townsend looked up and smiled broadly. “Hello, Cal. Glad you could make it. Come join us.”

My eyes found Winona first, and I fought back a lingering feeling of awkwardness over our aborted kiss. Her hair was down, her eyes radiant. She had on a simple, black dress with a delicate silver and turquoise necklace lying just above a hint of cleavage. Royce Townsend was standing next to his son with a glass of wine in his hand. He was as tall and handsome as Jason, although his shoulders were slightly stooped, and he had a full head of strikingly silver hair. His handshake was firm and his pale, gray eyes clear and alert. “Nice of you to join us, Cal. Let me introduce you to these folks.”

It was an eclectic group. The couple with the Range Rover turned out to be a local advertising mogul and his wife. She was an artist, and judging from her denim work shirt and the paint under her fingernails, a genuine free spirit. Among Jason's advisers were a black economics professor from Lewis and Clark, the CEO of a high-tech startup, and a Latina woman whom Townsend described as ‘a tigress on immigration policy.' She and I were the only lawyers in the group.

After I'd met everyone, Royce said, “We all read about the shooting, Cal. How are you feeling?”

All eyes in the room were suddenly on me. It was clear something had been said before I arrived. “Oh, I'm fine, thanks. That story in the paper exaggerated what happened.” Winona started to say something, and I shot her a warning look. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was talk about the fiasco at the quarry.

She caught my drift. “Cal has a charming old place in the hills above Dundee, in the wine country,” she said brightly.

It worked. The conversation turned to a lively discussion of Oregon wines, which were being poured in generous quantities by a circulating waiter. When Valerie ushered us into the dining room, I found myself sitting between the artist and someone who looked familiar to me. The artist—sipping maybe her fourth glass of wine—was engrossed in a conversation with Valerie, who'd managed to match her glass for glass.

The person who looked familiar was Sam DeSilva, Jason Townsend's campaign manager. I remembered meeting him at the Celilo Falls commemoration. His shaved head shown in the overhead lights, and his deep-set eyes were definitely not beacons of warmth. I learned he was an executive on loan from Royce Townsend's holding company, Townsend Enterprises. I sized Sam up as a tough-minded, no nonsense type—probably the ideal profile for running a Senatorial campaign.

Another familiar face sat across from me. David Hanson was the Chief Counsel for Townsend Enterprises and was looking after the legal aspects of the campaign, he told me.

So, Daddy Townsend was backing this campaign in a major way.

Unlike DeSilva, Hanson seemed to remember me from the commemoration, at least that's what he said when we introduced ourselves. Tall and thin, he wore sharply creased slacks, a black cashmere sweater, and a perpetually anxious look on his face. Glancing at Sam and then back to me, he said, “Tell us, Mr. Claxton—”

“Call me Cal, David.”

“Right, Cal. What brings you to us?” His eyes were skeptical, and I could feel the heat of DeSilva's gaze on the side of my face, as well.

I knew the drill. I was an unknown entity, and they felt obliged to check me out. I smiled affably. “Jason invited me. I like his stand on wild rivers. I'm here to help him get elected.”

Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. I remembered him rolling his eyes when this subject came up at the commemoration. David smiled. “That's great. We can use the help. What do you do, Cal?”

“I practice law to support my fly fishing habit.” Then to get a rise out of Sam I added, “I'd like to see the Columbia, or at least the Snake, flowing free again before I die.”

Sam puffed a breath, shook his head, and with sarcasm dripping from his voice said, “Oh, spare me. Not another dam bomber.”

Hanson shot him a withering look, then forced an apologetic smile at me. “Excuse my colleague, here. He doesn't think Oregon's ready for a forward-looking position on dam removal.”

Sam snorted. “Read ‘extreme' for ‘forward-looking,' and it doesn't poll worth a shit, anyway. Oregonians like cheap power more than salmon.”

“This is an environmental imperative for Jason,” Hanson fired back, as color began to puddle in his pink cheeks.

They were glaring at each other when Jason Townsend tapped the rim of his glass with a dinner knife. Dressed in gray slacks and a maroon crew neck sweater, he beamed his trademark boyish smile. “You can all relax, I'm not going to give a speech tonight.” Chuckles rippled through the room. “I think you know where I stand on the issues. I just want to thank you all for coming. I realize it's a lot to ask with the primary still a year away. But politics, being what it is today, requires lots of lead time and planning—”

“And money,” Sam DeSilva interjected, causing an eruption of laughter from the well-lubricated guests.

Jason laughed and gestured toward his campaign manager. “Yes, and that, too, Sam. But seriously, I'm humbled by the thought of running for the U.S. Senate and honored that you folks might consider getting in on the ground floor of my campaign. So, thank you again and bon appétit.”

After dinner the group adjourned to the library, which looked like something from a movie set—floor to ceiling books, a three-foot diameter antique globe, and even a sliding ladder to reach the highest books. I'd been pulled away from the group by Jason to huddle with his father, where the subject turned to the politics of dam removal. Jason was animated, his eyes lit with obvious conviction as he ran through an argument it was clear his father had heard before. “Anyway, I think we're facing a stark choice. Either dams or salmon, but not both. Trouble is, it's tough to get people to take me seriously.” He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder. “That's why you caught my attention at the lunch out at Celilo, Cal. You seem to get it.”

Before I could answer, Royce said, “Well, politics is the art of the possible, son. You may have to shelve some of that idealism. The primary race's going to be a dogfight.”

“Idealism?” he shot back. “Look what's happening on the Sandy River. Marmot Dam's coming out, thanks to pressure from environmental groups like the one Winona works for. Come October, that river's going to start repairing ninety years of damage.”

Royce put his hand on his son's shoulder. “I know, but that's a small dam on a small river compared to the Snake or the Columbia.”

Jason moved just enough to free himself from his father's grasp and glared at him. “It's a start.” Then he looked at me and said, “Excuse me, Cal,” before walking away to join another circle of guests.

Royce turned to me and sighed, his pale eyes the color of fog. “Ah, to be young and idealistic again. I remember those days with fondness, don't you, Cal?” He wore a self-satisfied expression, signaling he had me figured out, that I didn't have the naiveté his son ascribed to me.

I took a sip of brandy and nodded, not wishing to disabuse him of that notion.

“Jason needs to accept the fact that a politician's first duty's to get elected,” He went on.

I thought of the mountains of integrity sacrificed on that altar and stifled a sarcastic comeback. Instead, I shifted the subject. “Building The Dalles Dam as a young man must've been the experience of a lifetime.”

He laughed heartily. “Oh, it was incredible. Hard work, but far and away the most satisfying job I ever had. All very heroic, too. You know, we needed cheap hydroelectric power for aluminum to build fighters and B-52s, and to make nukes at Hanford, all to fight the Cold War. He glanced over at Winona and lowered his voice, “It was a shame what happened there at Celilo. By the time my brother and I got the contract to build the dam, the die had been cast. Her people didn't really have a chance.”

“Jason may have mentioned that I'm looking into the disappearance of Winona's grandfather, Nelson Queah. Would you mind if I abused your hospitality by asking you a couple of questions?”

His face remained unchanged except for a slight narrowing of his eyes and a tighter focus on me. “By all means, Cal.”

“I'm interested in a man named Cecil Ferguson. He supervised concrete pours at the dam. Do you remember him?”

“Ferguson. Hmm. Vaguely. I worked with lots of people on that project.”

“I have reason to believe he was skimming government money somehow. Did you ever hear of anything like that going on?”

He stroked his chin and paused for a moment. “Yes. Come to think of it, I do remember something about that. Some cub reporter from Portland was nosing around. Nothing ever came of it, though. Didn't Ferguson work for Braxton Gage?”

“Yes he did. Could Gage have been involved in the scam?”

He laughed. “Wouldn't surprise me. That man never saw a dollar he didn't lust after.”

“Is there anyone else I could talk to about this?”

He wrinkled his brow and ran his fingers through his silver hair. “Fifty years is a long time. I can't think of anyone except Gage. Hell, I'd talk to him if I were you. He was probably up to his eyeballs in the scam.” Royce's eyes started to wander, indicating the discussion was over.

“One more question,” I pressed. “Can you tell me anything about Sherman Watlamet, the man who was gunned down out on the John Day River? He was apparently a friend of Cecil Ferguson's.”

He winced at my words. “Grisly thing, that murder. No, can't say that I ever knew him back in the day.” Then he nudged me with his elbow and nodded subtly toward Winona, who was deep in conversation with Jason, the immigration activist and the professor. “She's a gorgeous woman, don't you think, Cal?”

I smiled and nodded in agreement.

“Jason was asking me about family rings the other day. We have a beauty that belonged to his grandmother. I think he's going to ask Winona to wear it. Wouldn't that be something?” With that, he walked off, not waiting for an answer.

Makes sense, I told myself. A real power couple. I drained my drink and stood there for a while, alone. The room seemed to shrink, the buzz of conversation became annoyingly loud, and the air went stale, like someone had taped off the doors and windows. Not wishing to be the first to leave, I hung around until the couple in the Range Rover said their goodbyes. As I was walking out to my car a few minutes later, I heard voices from the other side of a hedge that separated the path I was on from an outdoor patio. The sharp tone of the voices caused me to stop, and when I heard, “Damn it, Jason, I don't care what they say,” I slipped into the deep shadow of a large oak and listened shamelessly.