Celilo's Shadow
Celilo’s Shadow
Valerie Wilcox
© Copyright Valerie Wilcox 2017
Published by Black Rose Writing
www.blackrosewriting.com
© 2017 by Valerie Wilcox
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-880-3
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
In Memory of James W. Worthington
Acknowledgements
Writing a novel is a unique experience. It’s a solitary activity aided by the contribution of numerous others. I am grateful for the time and expertise of all those who contributed to the writing of Celilo’s Shadow. Specifically, Rita Gardner, who patiently and expertly edited a multitude of manuscript revisions; fellow writers Irene Fernandez, Joyce O’Keefe, Roger Schwarz, and Rev. Fred Jessett for their insightful critiques; Julia Stroud of ShrinkWrite for sharing her knowledge of the writing craft; Beth Schliehert for her artistic talents; the staff at The Dalles-Wasco County Library and the Columbia Gorge Discovery Center and Museum for answering my many questions while researching historical material; Mary and Dennis Davis for generously opening their home when I needed a place to stay; Joseph Lawrence for reading the novel in weekly installments, which motivated me to finally get to “The End.” A special thank-you to the friends and relatives who have supported my writing career over the years. You’ve kept me going whenever self-doubt rears its ugly head. And, as always, David Wilcox for his unwavering love and belief in me.
Author’s Note
As a youngster, I lived in the Oregon town where the novel takes place. My father was one of the skilled workers employed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to build The Dalles Dam. I have many fond memories of living in The Dalles and especially cherish my friends in the Class of 1963. Although historical figures and real places appear in the novel and the destruction of Celilo Falls, Native American burial sites, and village did occur, the story, characters, and some locations are entirely fictitious.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Author's Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Afterword
Other Novels by Valerie Wilcox
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
A lie told often enough becomes the truth.
~Lenin
You made your nets and tested the knots seeing that they held. Little did you know what was to hold you after the sound of water falling over what used to be.
~Ed Edmo, Celilo poet
Prologue
Present Day
The storm was just a local story at first. Despite nearly a week of fierce winds and record-breaking rainfall for the Pacific Northwest, property damage was minimal and there’d been no injuries or loss of life reported. With no drama to cover, media interest in the storm faded fast. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. Then a ten-year-old boy and his dog went exploring along the muddy banks of the rain-swollen Columbia River. The skeletal remains they stumbled upon were, according to the boy, “scattered across the shoreline like pickup sticks.” Their discovery grabbed national headlines after authorities speculated that the storm had dislodged an ancient burial ground, possibly Native American. Archaeologists and tribal activists flocked to the site until it was determined that the bones belonged to a single individual who had been buried for only sixty years or so. Further forensic examination confirmed that the individual had been a victim of foul play.
Sensational murder cases—even those sixty years old—tend to bring out the tinfoil hat crazies, the “Jesus told me who did it” nutters, and other assorted fruit loops with no credibility. I’d moved 3,000 miles and a lifetime away from the Oregon town I once called home, but I knew all about the circumstances surrounding the murder that had just been uncovered. I’d left town the day I turned eighteen and vowed never to come back or tell anyone what I’d witnessed—and I’d done just that until the past’s hidden remnants were finally exposed. The telling was overdue and I could no longer keep silent. As far as my credibility was concerned, the only thing I had to offer was the truth. If, as the saying goes, “the truth shall set you free,” I was more than ready to lay my silent burden down. For that to happen, I would have to relive the long hot summer of 1956 and, in so doing, betray the best friend I’d ever had.
Her name was Ellie Matthews and the first time I saw her was the day she moved into the new house across the street from mine. The last time was the day she disappeared. We were both fourteen-year-old girls living in a small but rapidly growing to
wn called The Dalles. That’s where the similarity between us began and ended. All these years later, I still cringe when I think about the striking contrast between Ellie’s mature beauty and my unpolished, juvenile appearance. She was a tall willowy blonde while I was short and skinny with unruly red hair that only my Irish grandmother found attractive. The sun loved her and, despite a fair complexion, she tanned easily. All I had to show for a summer in the sun was a mass of freckles dotting my cheeks like a bad case of measles. I insisted on wearing a bra which, even with a ton of toilet tissue stuffed inside, didn’t do much to enhance my flat, boyish chest. Ellie’s breasts were undeniably movie-star perfect with or without padding. I hated her instantly.
As soon as she saw me standing on the sidewalk coldly assessing her enviable features, she flashed a cheerful, dimpled grin and waved. Her teeth were so white and straight that there was no way I’d expose my mouth full of braces by smiling back at her. Whenever I felt uncomfortable or inadequate—which happened frequently during my teens—I’d compensate with a cocky attitude. And standing in Ellie’s beautiful shadow that day was enough to provoke me. I gave her outfit—shorts, sleeveless blouse, and sandals—a disapproving once-over and quipped, “Hot enough for you?”
Ellie shrugged off my inane comment and invited me into her house. By the time the movers had finished unloading her family’s belongings out of the Mayflower van, she’d begun to win me over. It was clear to me that this friendly, pony-tailed new girl on the block would be a hit. Ellie Matthews’ good looks wowed the boys, of course, but there was also a gentle sweetness about her that quickly endeared her to everyone in our Hillcrest neighborhood. As I got to know her better, I came to believe that she wasn’t as guileless or as naïve as she first seemed. Whatever doubts I had about Ellie’s true character, I would never have predicted the pivotal role she would play in the tragic events of that summer.
I’d volunteered to tell the homicide detective in charge of the case everything I knew about what had happened back then and the persons involved, but before we could schedule a date for my interview he cancelled it. He said there was no longer any need to meet with me since the murder victim had now been identified and their suspect in custody had confessed. The district attorney predicted a slam-dunk conviction. That sounded like a reasonable explanation for my dismissal, but I couldn’t accept it—not when I knew they were wrong about everything. So, I pushed back. Repeatedly.
I’ve been retired for some time, but I worked as a freelance investigative journalist for over thirty years and am proud to say that I earned several awards for reporting excellence throughout my career. I had a reputation for not giving up when following an elusive story or a hard-to-get interview. No obstacle was too great to deter me from chasing down a major scoop. My colleagues called me P.B. (Pit Bull), which I took as a compliment even though I suspected the nickname wasn’t meant to be particularly flattering. Given my history, I wasn’t used to walking away from something important. Despite being told the case was solved, I continued to pepper the police with requests to meet with me. I don’t know whether I convinced Detective Don Templeton that I had information critical to the case or whether he just wanted to get rid of a persistent pest, but he finally agreed to a meeting. He said he’d take my formal statement as soon as I could come into the station.
I made the necessary travel arrangements and two days later, I flew from New York to Oregon. I drove a rental car some eighty miles east of Portland on Interstate 84 before pulling off the highway to stretch my legs. The rocky bluff where I stopped was a popular tourist spot due to its panoramic view of the scenic Columbia River Gorge. It should have been an ideal place to take a break, but as I climbed out of the car I experienced such a dark, uneasy feeling that I had second thoughts about the wisdom of contacting the police. I considered whether to cancel my hard-won appointment and drive straight back to the airport or disregard my eerie misgivings and carry through with what I’d started. The decision was made for me when a busload of tourists arrived and I was swept along with the sightseers as they surged toward the edge of the bluff for a better view.
I was so distracted by the spectacular scenery that the anxiety I’d felt earlier didn’t seem quite as troubling—until I spotted Celilo Falls and the Indians fishing along its banks. It didn’t make sense. The falls weren’t located here. The sight caused a furious pounding in my chest almost as loud as the thunderous roar of the rapids below. Suddenly nauseous, I might have fainted had it not been for the cool mist drifting from the river up to the bluff where I stood. The vapor embraced me like a thoughtful lover and calmed the fears that threatened to overtake me. Still, it was several moments before my brain registered what my eyes were telling it.
I watched as the Indians, perched on wooden platforms suspended precariously over Celilo Fall’s turbulent waters, dipped their pole nets into the foam. The fish they sought—Chinook, bluebacks, steelhead, and Coho—leapt to impossible heights over the sharp rocks, driven by the primal need to reproduce at all costs. In the nearby village, smoke from several small fires of willow and maple branches spiraled upward. A light breeze carried the tantalizing scent of root soup as it cooked. Women with long braids stirred the broth while others readied drying racks for the day’s catch.
I stood transfixed by the scene until the haunting echoes from the past collided with the intrusive present—the images evaporating along with the mist. The thunderous roar was not the rushing waters of Celilo Falls, but semi-trucks rumbling across a modern bridge; not fish drying or soup cooking, but diesel fumes biting the nose; not fishermen salmon-dipping, but wind surfers riding the waves; not free-flowing rapids, but a massive concrete dam; not the continuation of an ancient way of life, but change and loss.
The disconnect between my memories and present-day reality was so jarring that I began to shiver despite the oppressive heat. After what seemed like an eternity, my legs ceased trembling and I could walk back to the car. Stopping at the bluff had been a mistake; another painful reminder of why I’d left home so many years ago. Despite my discomfort, I drove the final stretch of highway to The Dalles while rehearsing aloud the story I planned to tell the police.
Any doubts Detective Don Templeton may have had about me were not evident by the courteous way he greeted me upon my arrival. I’d only spoken to him previously by telephone, but I recognized his throaty, hoarse voice immediately. A smoker’s voice. For some reason, I’d pictured him as short and balding but he was at least six feet tall with a full head of steel-gray hair. Although stoop-shouldered, Templeton had a commanding presence that was lacking in the younger man he introduced as his partner, Detective Steve Burroughs.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay,” Templeton said, his words tumbling out in an excited rush. “There’s been a new development.” As he shrugged on his suit jacket, he nodded toward his partner. “Steve here will be happy to take your statement.”
Steve Burroughs shot him a look that conveyed exactly what he thought of the task he’d been saddled with. The look was mostly for my benefit since Templeton had already hustled out the door. The last-minute change didn’t bother me, but I figured it had to be frustrating for the detective left behind. Who’d want to listen to the ramblings of an old woman when all the action took place somewhere else? Burroughs stared at the door Templeton had exited and heaved a deep sigh. Apparently resigned to his fate, he offered to fetch me a cup of coffee. I declined, but he said he needed the caffeine, whether I did or not.
While he was gone I took stock of my surroundings. There was a large mirror on one of the dingy walls in the small interview room. Anyone who has ever watched a TV cop show would know the mirror was also an observation window. I could feel eyes staring at me through the glass, studying me like a specimen under a microscope. Given the status of the case, I didn’t expect such intense scrutiny. Maybe this so-called new development that had Templeton
racing out of the station had poked some holes in their supposedly air-tight case.
Now that I sat in the hot and stuffy room by myself, I wondered if I’d misjudged my ability to convince the police that what they believed had happened so many summers ago was all wrong, that their prime suspect was innocent, that what I was about to confess was the truth. Detective Burroughs had probably used the coffee as an excuse to let me stew awhile. I figured he was assessing my motives this very moment. God only knew what judgments he’d already made about me.
I’d been waiting for half an hour when the door opened and Burroughs returned with two mugs of steaming coffee. “In case you change your mind,” he said, setting the mugs on the table that separated us. As soon as he sat down, he gestured to the recording equipment in the room. A video camera mounted atop a tripod stood in the corner and a large, commercial grade tape recorder sat on the table. “Our conversation will be recorded and video-taped,” he said officiously.
There was nothing wrong with my eyes. Someone as young as Detective Burroughs probably thought a person my age was too doddering to understand the setup. He couldn’t have been much more than thirty and still had problem acne, which he tried to cover up with a closely cropped beard. His gel-spiked hair, designer glasses, and charcoal power suit projected a “man on the way up” image, but came off like a kid trying too hard. I was neither impressed nor intimidated, but he did worry me. Ambition could be problematic when so much was at stake. Biting back a sarcastic retort, I said, “Of course. I understand the need for documentation.”
He activated the video with a remote and then punched one of the buttons on the tape recorder. After an introductory statement giving the date, time, and our names, he said, “How much do you remember about the summer of 1956?”