Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  At the sink, she dabbed at her temples with a dampened paper towel, then held it to the back of her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the headache had moved from nagging to throbbing. As a rule, she didn’t get headaches, and hoped she wasn’t coming down with something.

  She found her toiletries pouch and took out her pill box of ibuprofen. After swallowing two tablets, she refreshed her lip gloss and patted her hair into place. If the humidity levels were going to wreak havoc with her hair, she’d have to find a good stylist. Maybe go super short.

  None of which mattered now.

  Cole’s entire demeanor had changed over dinner. She tried to remember when the shift had happened. Sometime after he’d mentioned her necklace. She fingered the beads, toyed with the diamond pendant. Her mom had given it to her shortly before she’d died, and Morgan treasured it.

  She gave her hair one last pat, then returned to the dining room, where Cole sat at their table. The check had been paid. She was about to protest, but why make a scene? He rose when she approached. It seemed almost ... obligatory. No hand at her back as they strolled to his car. No conversation on the drive to the inn.

  He did, however, get out and open her door. “Is tomorrow still good?” she asked.

  “Works for me. Meet you here?”

  She nodded.

  He escorted her to the door and opened it for her, but made no move to go inside.

  Maybe he had a headache, too.

  She nodded to Mr. Death-Warmed-Over as she headed for the stairs. She’d wait until morning and Mrs. More Cheerful before extending her stay here another night or two.

  In her room, Morgan scrubbed off her makeup, brushed her teeth, and got into her pajamas, reviewing the night. If Cole had gotten distant when she’d asked him to see if the house could become off limits, she could understand it. But it had begun prior to that. What had upset him?

  Unable to pinpoint anything she’d said or done, she moved on and checked her phone for another message from Austin, his parents, or Mr. Nakamura.

  Nothing.

  She sent another text to Austin.

  Need to hear from you. Text whenever you get this. Any time. Please.

  She plugged the phone into the charger and set it on the nightstand, then flipped on the television for mindless distraction.

  Surfing through the channels, she realized that if she had to live at Uncle Bob’s, she’d need to arrange for internet access and television service. She hadn’t thought to ask the installers for recommendations.

  Too much to do.

  It’s for Austin.

  She settled on M*A*S*H reruns. About as far away from her life as she could get, and she needed the laughs. How were Hawkeye and Trapper going to torment Frank Burns this time? She watched half a dozen episodes before she felt calm enough to sleep.

  STRAINS OF CHOPIN BROKE the silence. Austin’s ringtone. She jerked awake, fumbled for her phone. Two in the morning? Where was Austin and why was he texting at this hour? She blinked the text into focus.

  Sorry about lesson. will do better. SSBT

  Morgan sighed with relief at his closing acronym. School Sucks Big Time. It was a code they’d decided on using when his parents kept commandeering his phone, or losing it to help feed their alcohol addiction. Unlikely anyone else would know to sign off that way, which gave Morgan hope that Austin had really sent the message. She sent a reply as a second check.

  Czerny?

  She waited. A response came a few seconds later.

  299 still boring.

  Confident now that it was Austin, who had repeated arguments with both Morgan and his teacher about the value of the exercises, she sent one more text.

  Get some sleep. Things moving forward. Hang in.

  When he hadn’t responded in ten minutes, she set an alarm for six-thirty and fell back to sleep.

  The alarm startled Morgan out of a recurring dream she’d rather forget. Always variations on the same theme. She was late for a concert, or couldn’t find her way to the theater, or had blanked on what the program was. This time, Austin and Cole were with her, laughing at her plight, each pointing in a different direction.

  She threw back the covers and headed for the shower.

  Dressed in a casual pair of beige slacks and a teal pullover, tying a paisley scarf into a headband in an attempt to tame her curls, she went downstairs in search of coffee.

  Mrs. More Cheerful gave her a friendly “Good morning.”

  Morgan smiled, then ambled to the coffee station for the first hit of caffeine, the one that put the soul back in the body. And killed last night’s margarita headache. Sipping the hot brew, she returned to the desk.

  “I need to extend my stay. I’m not sure for how long. Can I add another night?”

  The woman tapped computer keys. “You can keep the room for another week, no problem.”

  “It shouldn’t be that long.” At least Morgan hoped so. Had Cole asked anyone at the police station about Uncle Bob’s house yet? “I can let you know tonight.”

  “That’ll be fine, dear. I’ll block the room off. There’s no penalty for early cancellation, so just keep us informed.”

  Morgan took another sip of coffee. “May I ask a more personal question?”

  The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling. “I hope it’s not about my sex life, because that train left the station years ago.”

  Heat rose to Morgan’s cheeks. “No, no, nothing like that. I wondered if you knew a Robert Tate.”

  “Bob Tate? House on Elm?”

  Morgan studied the woman’s expression. Calm. Thoughtful. Nothing like the housekeeper’s bizarre reaction. Nothing like she was aware of nasty graffiti on the bedroom wall.

  Should she mention the housekeeper? No, not now. “That’s right. He was my uncle. He died recently and left me the house. I never knew him. I’m interested in finding out more about him.”

  “Didn’t know he’d passed. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “Our paths didn’t cross much. I knew him well enough to say hi if we ran into each other, that’s all. Heard he had some health issues, couldn’t manage the house by himself so he moved away. Never saw him after that. There were renters, then the house just sat there going downhill. I wondered if maybe he’d sold it. Can’t tell you much more.”

  Morgan thanked her, finished her coffee, and decided she could walk to the bakery Cole had pointed out. She’d eat a pastry on the walk back. The sun was shining, and she could get a little exercise to make up for all the recent sitting. And eating.

  Her return to the inn coincided with the final bite of her chocolate croissant. Morgan jogged upstairs to freshen up, checked her annoyingly silent phone, and arrived in the lobby just as Cole walked in. What news would he have?

  He gave her an assessing look. His smile was more of a greeting smile than an I have good news smile. But it wasn’t an I have bad news smile, either.

  She matched her smile to his, although hers was more of a thank you no matter the outcome kind of smile, and crossed the room.

  After a very short discussion about who was going to drive, in which she accepted his argument that he was more familiar with the area—not to mention that she’d be self-conscious driving with a cop beside her—they headed for Portland.

  When he didn’t mention anything other than the weather—in great detail as to what to expect every season—and pointed out the various plants and trees growing alongside the road, and how they, too, changed with the seasons, she twisted in her seat to face him. “Did you have time to stop at the station and ask your boss about declaring Uncle Bob’s house a crime scene?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes? That was it? What did that mean?

  If she needed to get out the dental tools, she would. “Did you ask him?”

  Another yes.

  Traffic grew heavier as they approached the interstate. “Rush hour,” he said, flipping on the blinker, his eyes darting between mirrors as he merged into the flow.

 
Was he going to expound on the different traffic levels depending on the day of the week, too?

  “You’re dodging the obvious questions. Just tell me.”

  COLE MASSAGED THE BACK of his neck. Even though Kovak had made the decision, Cole was the one delivering the news. The one who’d have to look at the disappointment in Morgan’s big, brown eyes. “Didn’t get much sleep last night. My turn for a do-over? Call us even?”

  After a brief pause, she said, “Only fair.”

  “Yes, I went in and talked to my superior officer. He said there’s no evidence a crime has been committed, so there’s no reason you can’t live in the house.” He concentrated on the road.

  Her disappointment filled the car with a palpable gloom.

  “I get it. Thanks for trying.”

  “Hey, if it helps, my work schedule is four days on, three off, so I could help with your repairs. You cover supplies, I’ll handle the labor.”

  “That’s very generous, but if I need your help, I’ll pay you.”

  “I’ll work for food,” he said. “I can even write it on a cardboard sign. Make it official.”

  Her smile lifted his heart. And some of the gloom.

  “We can discuss it,” she said. “Speaking of food, I thought I was supposed to pick up last night’s tab.”

  “As I recall, you said you’d pay if I had more news about your uncle. I don’t think the little bit I discovered was worth the cost of a meal.” He’d thought about it when she’d gone to the restroom, considering it probably wouldn’t have made a dent in her finances. Yet, he admitted, it made him feel like he had the tiniest claim on her. His woman, at least for those brief moments.

  Today she wore another pair of expensive-looking, form-fitting slacks along with a sweater that wasn’t blue or green. Somewhere in between, and he’d bet there was a name for the color. She’d put a patterned scarf in her hair—silk, he guessed. Leather loafers.

  He wriggled his toes in his slip-ons. Better than sneakers, plus he was wearing a shirt and pullover like last night. He’d even added a splash of the aftershave his mom had given him for Christmas—was it three years ago?—but he still felt like a guy from the poor side of town.

  How in this universe had he started thinking about clothes and aftershave?

  “Do we—you—have an appointment at the facility, or are we going to surprise them?” he asked.

  “They’re expecting me. Why? Do you think it would be better to surprise them?”

  “No, just wondering how we’re going to play it. You said you wanted another set of eyes and ears, so how are you going to justify my presence? You’re a relative, I’m ... what? Your driver? Friend? Significant other? Cousin? Investigator?”

  “Friend is fine for introductions, but think of yourself as an investigator,” she said.

  “Got it. Outwardly a friend, with secret investigative tendencies on the inside. Where are we going to start?”

  “I told them I’d like to claim Uncle Bob’s personal possessions. They said they’d boxed everything. It’s kind of sad. Even if he wasn’t all there at the end, to think that nobody cared enough to show up.” She blew out a sigh. “I tried to explain that I’d only found out about his death a short time ago, but I got the feeling they think I didn’t give a damn about the old man.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “You’ll prove them wrong, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know. I could have rushed out as soon as I found out he’d died.”

  “Which would have been after they’d had his body taken to the funeral home, or whatever he’d specified. Given he had no next of kin on record with the center, they wouldn’t have held the body.”

  She seemed to ponder that for a moment. “That’s right. You’re a cop. You know how these things work.”

  “At your service.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  “They didn’t do an autopsy. At least Mr. Hathaway didn’t mention it, or say there were any unusual circumstances surrounding his death. Nobody wondered why he’d died.”

  “That’s normal when elderly people die in nursing homes, unless a doctor has a reason to suspect the death wasn’t from natural causes. Did you ask how he died?”

  “Since I was hardly aware of his existence, no, I just accepted it when Mr. Hathaway called to tell me I’d inherited the house. By then, I think it was at least a week after Uncle Bob had died. I’d moved a couple of times from the last contact information he had for me, which hadn’t been updated after my parents died.”

  “You said that was ten years ago? May I ask how old you were? Or is that pushing into never ask a woman her age territory?”

  Morgan smiled and the rest of the gloom dissolved like the whipped cream on his lattes. “Nineteen.”

  “Must have been tough,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I’ve gotten past most of the hurt. They died in a car accident. My father was a retired professor of art history. He and my mom were taking advantage of a symposium in Grenoble where he could connect with old colleagues, and had added vacation time.”

  She’d said she didn’t get much support after their deaths. He could understand why it would be a sore spot. Nineteen years old and all alone. Not a subject he cared to pursue.

  “Want some music?” he asked, gesturing to the radio.

  “Fine.”

  He flipped on the audio and connected his phone’s music library. “If there’s a song you don’t want to hear, let me know and I’ll skip it.”

  “I’m okay with most music.” She looked out the window for a minute, then turned back. “What about your family? You said your dad was a contractor, and your cousin’s in business with him. You have any siblings?”

  “One younger sister. She wanted nothing to do with the construction business. She lives in San Francisco and works for a software company. Exactly what she does is above my area of comprehension.”

  “Mine, too, I’d bet.”

  Morgan’s fingers tapped on her thighs in time to the music. “Bohemian Rhapsody” hit the radio, and Cole hummed along, then sang.

  “Come on,” he said. “Everyone sings along with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.”

  She laughed and joined in. Damn, her singing voice was ten times better than his. Which wasn’t saying much, as his singing voice was a minus three on the one-to-ten scale.

  When they arrived at the center, Cole decided he could be a good friend and guided Morgan with a hand at the small of her back along the path bordered by lush grass and beds of spring flowers to the entrance. Touching her sent signals down south. Too good of a friend.

  He shifted gears, thought of himself as a cop, dropped his hand when they reached the door.

  Inside, Morgan stepped to the reception counter with a straight spine and an aura of authority. She introduced herself, and within a minute, a young woman escorted them down a flight of stairs to a small storage room.

  The woman pointed to three large cartons labeled Tate in red marker. “This is everything from Mr. Tate’s room. If you’d like, I can arrange to get them to your car.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Morgan said. “Can I see his room?”

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry, it’s occupied. We have a long wait list, and rooms fill right away.”

  “Could I talk to the people who knew him?” Morgan asked.

  The woman’s expression brightened. “That’s doable. I’m sure the residents will be happy to have visitors.”

  “Did you know Mr. Tate?” Cole asked.

  “Not well,” the woman said. “I’ve been here two years, and his dementia made getting to know him difficult. He was nice enough when he was lucid,” she added, as if trying to offer something positive.

  “Perhaps we should start with people who’ve been here long enough to have known my uncle before his dementia worsened,” Morgan said.

  “Sure. I can take you to the gathering room,” the woman said. “That’s where residents hang out.”

  “WHAT DID YOU THINK
?” Morgan asked, once they were back on the road to Pine Hills.

  “If I have to go into assisted living, that looks like a nice enough place.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He chuckled. “I know. Aside from finding out your uncle was a loner even before his dementia sent him into a dark hole, I don’t have anything to add.”

  Morgan had seemed saddened when the basic response to being introduced was of the Nice to meet you. I didn’t know Bob had a niece variety.

  “That’s what I felt, too,” she said. “Apparently, he wasn’t the sharing type. I guess the trip was a dead end.”

  “There’s still the boxes,” Cole said.

  Chapter 10

  MORGAN STARED AT THE boxes sitting on the living room floor. Her sole ties to an uncle she’d never met. One who’d apparently not mentioned her existence at Willamette Valley Villas.

  Then again, he wasn’t really her uncle, not when she got down to it.

  Of course he was. Just because there were no blood connections, she’d always regard her parents as her real parents. Except for not contributing any genetic components, they’d loved her, raised her, and she’d never known any others.

  “Are you going to open them?”

  Cole’s voice summoned her back to reality.

  “Not sure I’m ready,” she said, remembering the pain going through her parents’ things had brought. She was nineteen then, and she’d had a close relationship with her parents. Uncle Bob was a virtual unknown.

  Ready to open them, or ready to reveal potential secrets in front of a relative stranger?

  Her life had been filled with strangers. Never time to make friends. She’d bricked herself behind a wall, keeping everyone at a distance. Easier than having to say good-bye, knowing you’d never see them again.

  Yet Cole, in just a couple of days, had crossed from stranger to potential close friend. She couldn’t let him get any closer. If she asked Cole more about his life, he’d want the same from her, and she’d given up her old life. It was a secret she worked hard to keep buried.