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After Vivian left, Dela showered, ate lunch, and then she and Mugshot headed to Pendleton to try and catch Natalie at home on her day off. She’d asked personnel for Natalie’s home address that morning.
The waitress lived in a duplex on the south side of the interstate. Dela found the address, drove past, and parked next to a vacant lot. She took Mugshot out on a leash walking around the lot and watching the neighborhood. In the thirty minutes she and Mugshot loitered, no one poked a head out or came by and said anything to them.
She put the dog back in her car and drove to Natalie’s address. Dela studied the windows. Nothing moved behind them. There wasn’t a vehicle on either side of the duplex. She exited the car and walked up to the number for Natalie’s residence.
Knocking on the door didn’t get any results in front of her, but the door to the other side of the duplex opened.
“No one’s home,” a young female voice called.
Dela faced the young woman who looked to be barely out of high school. As the woman opened the door farther to step out, the sound of a baby crying could be heard.
“Is she at work?” Dela asked.
“No. It’s her day off. She’s either at the laundromat or visiting her boyfriend.” The young woman smiled. “He’s cute but a little geeky.”
“Does this boyfriend have a name?” Dela asked.
“Drummer boy. That’s what Natalie calls him. I think he’s in a band or something.”
The baby let out a scream that curled Dela’s toes from the other threshold. “I’ll let you go. Any chance you know which laundromat?”
“Yeah, the one on Emigrant.” She started to close her door and asked, “Do you want me to tell her you’re looking for her?”
“I’m sure I’ll catch up to her at work. Thanks.” Dela walked back to her car, slid in, and headed to Liberty Cleaners on Emigrant Avenue.
She parked in the parking lot and walked into the building. The sound of washers and dryers nearly drowned out the radio station playing from speakers in the corners. Dela scanned the room. Natalie wasn’t standing anywhere. She walked along the end of the rows of washers to see if she was sitting somewhere looking at her phone or reading. Nothing.
Dela sat down and texted Heath. Can you tell me what Natalie drives and her license plate?
Can’t find her? He replied.
Her neighbor thought she was at the laundromat but I don’t see her. There are several machines going and no one around. I thought if her car is here, I’d wait for her to return.
His next text had the make, model, and plate.
Thank you. She replied. A quick scan of the vehicles and she didn’t find the car. Not here, going home.
Heath gave her a thumbs-up emoji.
She smiled and walked out to her car. Instead of driving back out to the interstate, she drove toward Main Street. There she took a left and parked next to Hamley’s. She had the photo on her phone and had taken a picture of the backside capturing the photographer’s name. There wasn’t anything more she could learn by looking at the photo of the Indian Relay Race team.
But she could see if the photographer was still around and knew anything more about the team and possibly Dory. She pulled the photo up on her phone and noted the address on the bottom of the sticker. Smiling, she put her phone away and drove to the address listed on the sticker.
There was a large older house that looked as if it could use some repairs. It made her think of the house FBI Special Agent Quinn Pierce was remodeling when she’d met him. She wondered how that was going.
An elderly man stepped out onto the front porch and an equally elderly dog walked stiff-legged out into the yard.
Dela slipped out of the car, while Mugshot whined at the window watching the older dog pee on everything he walked up to.
She was halfway up the walk when Dela asked, “Are you Mr. Dickens who had the photography studio here?”
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?” The man didn’t move off the porch.
Dela continued up the sidewalk and stopped just off the porch. “I was wondering if I could get a copy of a photo you took. It’s of the Indian Relay Race team at the Roundup in nineteen-eighty-four.”
The man shook his head. “There were a bunch of different teams every year. Do you know which one you are looking for?”
“It would have been the Umatilla team, I’m pretty sure.” The fear she wouldn’t be able to get another photo eased and she smiled back at the man.
“You’re lucky. I was boxing all of those up to give to the Roundup Committee. If they are in this house when I die, my kids will just chuck ’em in the trash.”
Dela smiled and followed the man into the house. It was obvious he’d been living alone for a while. The house smelled of liniment, coffee, and stale food. A lot like Grandfather Thunder’s house.
He left the door standing open. Dela figured it was so the old dog could come in when he was ready.
Mr. Dickens stopped beside a door that led off the side of the square room that would have been the parlor when the house was built. “This is where I had my photo studio set up. My wife, Eleanor, scheduled people to come in for portraits and the events I did. Like the Roundup. I was their Roundup photographer for over twenty-five years. Up until I couldn’t move around very well and they brought in a younger man.” He walked into the room and scanned the stack of boxes. “What year did you say?”
“Nineteen-eighty-four.” Dela walked into the room and read the labels on the boxes closest to her. “Wow, you have nearly every event that happened in this area when you had a studio.”
The man smiled. “I enjoyed capturing moments that would later bring up good memories.” He pointed. “There it is. Can you reach it? My arthritis flared up today. My neighbor comes over for an hour on the weekends and helps me box it all up.”
Dela reached for the box marked Roundup 1984. She grasped the cardboard carton and spun to set it on an empty table.
Mr. Dickens was pulling on a pair of white gloves. “Have to be careful no oily prints are left on the photos. It could discolor them.” He motioned for Dela to take the lid off.
She did as she was told. Stacks of photos in plastic envelopes filled the box.
He handed her a pair of gloves. “What are we looking for?”
“A photo of the relay race winners. I saw the photo in Hamley’s and decided I would like a copy of it.” She glanced at the man as she pulled on the gloves. “One of the men is a relative and I’d like to give it as a present.”
“That’s a fine idea.” He handed her a stack of plastic-covered photos. “You know what the team looks like, you can find the action shot and I’ll look for the winning team photo.”
She nodded and took the stack of photos. Her hands shook as she looked through the pile. “Are there more? There aren’t any relay race photos in these.”
The man handed her more photos. Halfway through the stack, she found not one but three action shots of Dory Thunder as he mounted each of the horses he rode in the relay. His name was written in ink across the bottom. That he was the rider and not just one of the horse holders, made her even more curious about the man.
She stared at the three photos, but they were action shots and his face was small and always faced forward. While it was a good photo, it was hard to see the man’s face.
“You found what you were looking for?” Mr. Dickens asked.
“Yes and no.” Dela watched the man dig through more photos and finally come up with the photo of the relay team. Dory’s expression didn’t look as if he’d just become the winner of the Indian Relay Race at the Pendleton Roundup.
“I remember this guy. He was a really good horseman. But he always looked as if he’d just lost his best friend. Even after he made the last race that marked him a winner, he didn’t really seem happy.” Mr. Dickens took the photos in her hands. “I’ll make you copies. You come back by tomorrow afternoon and I’ll have them ready.”
Dela nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”
“No problem. It will give me something to do besides watch television and let Clyde in and out.”
Dela figured he meant the old dog. “Can I pay you now?” She pulled her wallet out of her purse.
“Wait until tomorrow. The negative has been sitting so long, I want to see if the photo is worth anything.” He pulled out a small tin box and started walking his fingers through cellophane strips with numbers in the corners. “Here it is.” He held up a short strip of negatives. “I’ll get everything set up tonight and make the photos in the morning.”
“If this is too much trouble, I can take it to someone else,” Dela offered.
“Those machines they have these days would probably ruin the negative. No, it’s fine. Like I said, I need something to do.”
“Thank you. I’ll be back around three tomorrow.” She calculated she could go to work around noon, then take a break at three and run into Pendleton and pick up the photos.
“I’ll see you then.”
“I can find my way out. Thank you, Mr. Dickens.” She smiled at the man and headed to the front door.
It was almost 4 o’clock, she wondered if the East Oregonian newspaper would have a write-up about the Roundup winners in 1984. She headed to the City Library which is part of City Hall.
Her phone dinged as she sat at a light. She glanced at the text.
You aren’t home yet.
She’d told Heath she was headed home after the laundromat. Changing the direction of the car, she headed to the interstate. She could always check out the archives when she came for the photos tomorrow afternoon.