Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  You needed to sleep. I let Bailey out. TTYL.

  He drew a happy face. What the hell. He added two more.

  AT ROLL CALL, OFFICER Nolan gave a quick, skimming-the-surface summary of yesterday’s assault on Randall Ebersold and passed around photos of the three suspects. “As of now, we have nothing that confirms they were the ones involved. Consider them persons of interest and keep your eyes open.”

  She gave patrol assignments, and Cole tried to hide his disappointment when she put him on the front desk. Civilians manned reception, but not until nine on weekends. Cole had drawn the assignment of covering the phones and dealing with walk-ins until then.

  He grabbed a cup of coffee from the break room, then settled in behind the desk, checking the call log and fingering his way through the accordion file. He stopped at the PQ slot when he found an envelope with his name on it.

  For a split second, he entertained the notion that Morgan had dropped it off while he was at roll call, but that was ridiculous. If she needed him, she’d have sent a text. Or called. He slit the envelope open.

  A stack of papers clipped together, with a sticky note.

  You’re in luck. Ashley has a big sale this weekend, so she was working late. Figured I might as well, too. ~ SW

  Cole yanked off the clip and began reading. Printouts of screenshots of newspaper articles. Copies of a few arrest reports from five years ago in Portland. Had his hunch paid off? Had Whelan shared this information with the detectives? Even if he had, this was an old case, which, as far as Cole could tell, barely tiptoed into Pine Hills jurisdiction.

  The detectives should be in today, following up on the Ebersold case. Cole would check in then. Meanwhile, he strove to maintain polite responses when people called in with their suspicions and demands, dutifully filling out the requisite forms and staying current with the filing.

  Mr. Grossjean’s daughter called, and Cole did what he could to assure her the man appeared to be in perfect health on the last well-being check. “An officer will be stopping by.”

  He reported the call to Faith Nolan, who notified Dispatch to send someone out.

  Cole wondered if it would be Brody getting his eyeballs fried.

  During lulls, he worked his way through the paperwork Whelan had left, trying to find a link between Kirk Webster and the graffiti. A twinge of guilt hit as he read the newspaper articles, because those were public records, and Cole could have found them himself.

  It was almost time for the reception clerk to show up when Cole got to the last of Whelan’s pages. He’d pulled whatever strings, called in whatever favors, and finagled a copy of Austin’s mother’s traffic accident report.

  Things would be different now that she’d died, but Cole read through the report anyway, hoping to find something that would give Morgan leverage in getting Austin to live with her.

  Nothing unusual. Mrs. Jackson had been unconscious and taken directly to the hospital. The trail ended there. If Austin’s mom had survived, her blood alcohol levels would have been used as evidence, but Cole couldn’t see anything to help Morgan.

  Spotting his relief approaching, Cole put everything back in the envelope and discovered another sticky note adhered to the inside. Must have fallen off one of the pieces of paper. Cole relinquished his seat, briefed his replacement, and headed for the locker room.

  There, he read the note in what he now recognized as Whelan’s handwriting.

  Talk to Judge Hope Abernathy. Sympathetic to good Samaritans.

  Chapter 28

  MORGAN WOKE TO THE aroma of coffee in her nostrils and a cold, wet nose in her ear. Smiling, she reached out and found Bailey lying beside her. She checked the time. Seven-thirty. That would explain the otherwise empty bed. She must have been zonked not to have noticed Cole’s leaving.

  He did give you a workout.

  Bailey didn’t seem anxious to go out, so Morgan took care of her own needs before slipping on a robe and padding downstairs. She found Cole’s note and her smile widened. Thoughts of him did that to her.

  She poured food into Bailey’s dish. “We’ll go for a walk later.”

  Leaving the dog to his breakfast, she took her coffee to the couch and fired up her laptop. She needed to book a flight into Portland for Austin. How would he get to the airport? Did he even own a suitcase? Would she have to go fetch him in person?

  Too much to deal with. First, she’d shower.

  As Morgan climbed the stairs, sore places reminded her of what she’d done—what they’d done last night. Another smile spread across her face.

  After she showered and dressed, she checked Bailey’s bandages for signs of infection. Satisfied he was healing, she clipped on his leash and they went for a stroll.

  As they approached Trisha’s house, her two toddlers were playing in the yard. Bailey tugged on his leash, wanting to visit. He stood on his hind legs, front paws resting on a fence rail.

  Morgan paused while the kids uttered sounds that sounded like doggie.

  “I understand you might be hiring the firefighter crew,” Trisha said.

  “They’re on my list,” Morgan said. “I’m supposed to get more estimates later today.”

  “They’re good.” Trisha lowered her voice. “The extra money would really help. Trent—” she motioned to one of the boys— “has been having medical issues, and the insurance company is fighting us all the way.”

  “I can’t promise, but Tom’s assessment seemed quite reasonable.” Morgan tugged Bailey away from his two new friends and finished their circuit of the block. When she got home, she called the two other construction companies and cancelled her appointments. Friends came first. She wasn’t sure Trisha fell into the friend category yet, but neighbors counted, too.

  If Tom acted like a flirtatious creep, she’d deal with it. If Cole objected to her hiring without interviewing three companies, she’d deal with that, too. Her life, her decisions.

  She called Austin, offered what support she could. His mother might not have placed in the top five mother-of-the-year standings, but she was still his mother, and kids loved their mothers, even through tough times. She asked to speak to Mrs. Slauson and went through her list of questions.

  Nobody had come from Children Services. Austin could stay with her as long as he needed to. He’d been a big help with her grandchildren. She’d raided the Jacksons’ pantry and refrigerator, so no need to send money for food. Yet.

  When Morgan ran through the logistics of getting Austin to Pine Hills, Mrs. Slauson was more helpful than Morgan had dared hope. Her son, Mrs. Slauson said, would take care of getting Austin to the airport, and she’d lend him luggage.

  “I’ll replace it,” Morgan promised. “Easier than shipping it back.” Or, Morgan would bring it, because there was bound to be a trip to Dublin. She hoped everything she needed to do could be handled in two-day visits once a month. If not, she’d fight the terms of the trust. The same way she’d fight to keep Austin with her.

  “I’ll call with flight information,” Morgan said. “It’ll be tomorrow, maybe Monday.”

  Later in the week would give her more time to have furnishings delivered, but Morgan didn’t want to risk someone from the legal system in Dublin showing up and placing Austin in foster care. Was she breaking any laws?

  Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

  Morgan asked to speak to Austin again, told him he was being a real man, and to start gathering his clothes and any other things he needed. “Like your sheet music. And your school books.”

  Next, she called the airline. Tickets for unaccompanied minors were wrapped in balls of red tape, but she’d untangled them just as the first fence appointment showed up, a man from the company Rich had recommended. They discussed the best options for materials, the ideal yard a dog Bailey’s size would need. He drew a sketch, took measurements, and promised to give her an estimate by late afternoon.

  She was impressed but remembered to ask for references. Maybe Cole would forgiv
e her for taking the shortcut with the construction if she showed due diligence with the fencing.

  While she waited for the next appointment, she called the company she’d bought her bed from and ordered another one in twin size.

  Trusting the online reviews, she ordered a microwave and a toaster oven for the kitchen, as well as a set of dishes. A television set, plus someone to help set it up.

  She needed a fully functioning stove. As long as she was going to get rid of the puke green one, she might as well order all new appliances. The warehouse store in Salem was having a sale, with deeper discounts for buying several pieces.

  Twist my arm, why don’t you?

  She called the store, made sure she ordered pieces that would fit—she’d forget about doing major remodeling.

  “What if I added a washer and dryer?” she asked.

  The clerk said he’d talk to his manager about offering better pricing, and came back a moment later with approval for an extra discount. “Plus,” he said, “with an order this size, you get express delivery, so we can have it to you Monday.”

  She tried to think about what she was saving, not what she was spending.

  Morgan studied the empty living space, trying to visualize it with furniture, then searched for living room and dinette sets. While she’d have preferred to pick out furniture herself, accumulating quality pieces over time, she looked at room ensembles, chose sets she thought she could live with, and crossed her fingers that the quality would be at least a few steps above mediocre. Dressers and night tables for the bedrooms came next.

  By four, Morgan felt satisfied she’d done as much as she could on line. She’d have to request increases in her credit card limit. On a more positive note, she’d be replenishing her frequent flyer miles by using her rewards credit card.

  Her phone buzzed. Cole, in his texting shorthand, said he’d be there before five to put the last coat of compound on the wall patch.

  Wine? she texted back. Keep the receipt. Feeling wanton, she added, condoms?

  She got two thumbs up and five happy faces in reply.

  Cole arrived at five with a bottle of wine, and bags from Thriftway and Loomis Drugs. He reached into the Thriftway bag and tossed a new toy to Bailey. “Let me finish the wall, and you can open the wine.”

  She frowned. “I don’t have a corkscrew.”

  “I thought that might be the case. I’m presenting you with your very first housewarming gifts.” He reached into the bag again, and with a flourish, handed her the necessary tool, plus two wine glasses.

  She thanked him with an embrace, one that turned into a lingering kiss. One that promised more.

  He broke away, tapped her nose. “Let me get to work. When I’m finished, I’ll tell you what I learned today.”

  Good news? He wouldn’t seem so cheerful if it was bad. Waving the drugstore bag, he headed for the stairs.

  COLE FINISHED THE LAST coat, leaving the sheets of plastic in place. He’d have to give the patch one more good sanding.

  Downstairs, Morgan had opened the wine and poured two glasses. She offered him one and carried hers to the couch. Bailey followed, flopping at their feet.

  When she related what she’d accomplished, Cole held back a retort that she was moving too fast with the construction. After what she’d told him last night, he understood why she didn’t like people giving her unsolicited advice. She’d spent her growing-up years having every decision made for her, being told what she should and shouldn’t do. She could have turned out as someone who was afraid to do anything without being told, but she’d gone the other way. She wanted to do things her way, and Cole had to respect that.

  On a positive note, if she hired Tom’s crew, there was a good chance Cole would get to be part of the job.

  “I bought a plane ticket for Austin, a flight that gets into Portland tomorrow at four. I know it’s soon, but I wanted him out of Dublin as soon as possible.” She twirled her glass. “Am I doing anything illegal?”

  Cole sipped his wine. “I think it’s a gray area. Unless his father shows up, there are no other relatives, right?”

  “He’s never mentioned any. I thought I could say I invited him out for a visit, to be with someone he knows while he gets over his mother’s death. Then try to work out a custody agreement. The problem is, if I go to Ohio more than once for any length of time, I forfeit the house, and then I’d be starting from scratch.”

  Cole raised his glass. “I got the name of a Dublin judge who might be on your side.”

  The way Morgan’s face brightened lit a fire in Cole’s belly. She tapped her glass to his before taking another sip.

  “When’s your furniture being delivered?” he asked.

  “Appliances on Monday,” she said. “The rest of the stuff on different days. We’ll be roughing it for at least a week. I’ll give Austin my room and I’ll sleep down here until his bed’s delivered.”

  “One other thing,” Cole said. “Are you going to get a job here? Or do you already have one lined up? I know being employed, having a steady income, is important in custody cases.”

  “Sure. Easy-peasy. Get a job. I’ll add that to my to-do list. Is the library hiring? That’s what I’m trained for.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Have you subscribed to the Pine Hills Patter yet?”

  She raised a brow. “What’s that?”

  “Our online newsletter. More community events than news, but it’s a good place to see who’s hiring, what’s happening around town. It’s a free weekly.”

  “I’ll do that.” Morgan took a gulp of wine, set the glass down and hung her head. “I didn’t tell you everything last night.”

  “You really are a serial killer?”

  Not even a hint of a smile.

  “You didn’t ask what became of Tatiana Morgan. Why I stopped playing the piano.”

  “I guess I figured you got tired of it, or it was related to your parents dying. It’s not important to me. Like I said, I like the Morgan you are today.”

  “Even if I’m a cowardly failure?”

  “You? A coward? You gave up the life you had to move halfway across the country to help nurture a kid. You’re diving into remodeling, you’re standing up for yourself, you’re doing whatever needs to be done as it happens. Okay, you did scream when you saw the rats, but that’s a normal reaction. I won’t count that against you. I’m sure you’re going to succeed with this house, with Austin, and—” he reached down to pet the dog— “with Bailey.”

  When she didn’t go on, Cole wondered if she’d been waiting for him to shove a foot into the door she’d cracked open. “If you want to tell me why you stopped playing the piano, that’s fine. If you don’t, I won’t think less of you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll think less of me when I do tell you.”

  “You willing to take a chance?” From her forlorn expression, Cole wondered if they’d ever get to the condoms he’d brought.

  Aren’t you the selfish one?

  He went to the kitchen for the wine bottle and topped off their glasses. They sipped in silence for several moments.

  Morgan set down her glass and turned her hands face up. With a forefinger, she pointed to the base of her palm, first on one hand, then the other, showing two faded scars.

  Cole’s first reaction was it was a failed suicide attempt, but he dismissed the thought. The scars weren’t in the right place.

  “Carpal tunnel,” she said. “Doesn’t play nice with piano.”

  “You had surgery, didn’t you? Isn’t that supposed to fix it?”

  “That’s what we thought.” She heaved a sigh. “I complained about having pain, tingling, and numbness. At first, my mom thought I was trying to get out of practicing, that I wanted to start socializing with my peers. Parties, dates, movies. Then, when I kept complaining, she said it was probably tendinitis, had me take yoga classes, saying that would strengthen my wrists. There was some improvement, but the symptoms didn’t go away.

  “Wh
en I was seventeen, she finally agreed to let me see a specialist, who convinced her it was advanced carpal tunnel, not tendinitis, and recommended the surgery. I had concerts booked for another three months, and I agreed to keep the dates, although by the end, there were murmurings that I was no longer the talented pianist I’d been as a child, that maybe I’d outgrown my gift.”

  She worked on her wine for a moment. “Don’t get me wrong. I was not exploited by my parents. They’d made it clear I could quit whenever I wanted. I did love playing, even if it became harder and harder. We agreed that I’d take an extended leave from giving concerts, and I’d have the surgery. Dad suggested we have it done in Paris, take a family vacation, be regular people for a while.”

  Cole traced her scars with a forefinger. “That’s when their accident happened?”

  “No, it happened almost two years later. The surgery has a high success rate—something around ninety-eight percent, I think. But if you wait too long, the odds of a complete recovery drop. I was in that group. So, my extended leave got longer and longer.

  “There were still invitations to parties. When I refused to perform, the invitations slowed, then stopped. I started to hate listening to classical music. Things I used to love were snatched away, and I built a wall separating me from who I’d been. My parents’ accident was the final blow. I withdrew from everything for about a year, then moved to Dublin. A place as far away from my old life as any place could be. I went to school, got a degree in library science. I buried Tatiana Morgan. For good. Now, if I hear a classical piece I used to play, or even see a piano, I get the shakes and feel physically sick.”

  She swiped at her eyes. “I’ve lived with my failure—perceived, or otherwise—for over ten years. It’s ingrained. It’s not a switch I can turn off just because someone says it shouldn’t matter. Morgan Tate wants Tatiana Morgan to disappear. Tatiana failed, which means I’ve failed. But deep down, she’s still a part of me.