Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  Austin, head tilted back, gaping at the six-and-a-half-foot tall man, threw a questioning look at Morgan.

  “Go on. I’ll be helping Mrs. Detweiler.” She handed Austin the envelope with his sheet music.

  Austin, eyes still wide, shuffled down the hall.

  “It’s so nice of you and Randy to do this,” Morgan said to Sarah. “Regular practice is critical for Austin. What can I do to help?”

  “Most of it’s done. Rigatoni with my grandmother’s pasta sauce, salad, and garlic bread. If you’ll open the wine, I won’t object to having a pre-dinner drink. There’s a bottle and glasses on the sideboard in the dining room.” She opened a box of crackers and tipped them onto a plate.

  Morgan followed Sarah’s directions to the dining room. As she opened the bottle, Czerny piano exercises came from the hall. Smiling, she poured two glasses of wine.

  Sarah came in and set the crackers, cheese, and vegetables on the living room coffee table.

  The music shifted to Beethoven’s Sonata Number Eight. Pathetiqué.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “I’m no music critic, but living with Randy’s given me some appreciation for good playing, and Austin’s good. Really good. I admit, I expected something more along the lines of Lydia, a kid who lived in my old apartment building. She wasn’t bad, but ... wow. Nothing like this.”

  Heat rushed up Morgan’s neck as the music brought back memories, and with it, the pain of failure. She ducked her head, reaching for a baby carrot, chomping on it as an excuse not to answer.

  Randy came into the living room and set the baby in a jumper seat. To Morgan, he said, “How long has he been playing?”

  “About two years. I ran across him goofing around in the library when we were setting up for a music program. He sat down at the piano and blew me away. When he said he’d never had lessons, I knew I had to do something about it.”

  “You taught him?”

  Morgan ducked her head again. “No, I found him the best teachers I could. I’m not qualified to teach him.”

  Randy’s expression held disbelief, but because he didn’t object, she knew he’d kept his word and hadn’t told Sarah about Tatiana Morgan. “I’ll have to find him another teacher in Salem or Portland. Unless there’s someone qualified in Pine Hills?”

  “What about you, Randy?” Sarah asked. “You’re good.”

  He snickered. “I’m good, yes. Austin needs someone excellent.” He threw a pointed glance Morgan’s way.

  She lifted her gaze. “Yes, he does.”

  The music changed. Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee,” the piece where Morgan had first noticed the pain in her hands. She gathered every vestige of her composure. “Excuse me. Where’s your powder room?” she said, hoping she could get there before she burst into tears.

  “Down the hall.” Sarah gestured in that direction.

  Morgan stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her New Life on Elm Street project was progressing on a superficial level. Sure, she was fixing the house, and Austin was with her, although not the way she’d planned. She hadn’t transformed. She was still the same withdrawn coward inside as she’d been all those years ago when she’d buried Tatiana Morgan.

  Cole had said nothing in her past indicated coward or failure to him. Why couldn’t she believe him? Accept that Morgan Tate could be a success? That success as a person wasn’t measured in concert gigs or adoring fans?

  She wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. She’d have to remake herself. Learn to internalize the positive.

  It’s like learning a new piano piece. You didn’t have it concert ready without lots of repetitions.

  She returned to the living room. The music had stopped, and Austin was sipping from a glass of juice and nibbling on a piece of cheese. He turned to her, his eyes alive for the first time since she’d picked him up at the airport.

  “Mr. Detweiler said I can come practice here, like at Mrs. Reardon’s, if it’s okay with you.”

  The couple exchanged what Morgan considered a silent communication glance followed by a tiny head bob on Randy’s part. Clearly, they’d already discussed this.

  “Of course it is.” Morgan turned to Randy and Sarah, sitting side by side on the couch, their fingers intertwined. “It would be for a couple of weeks at most. Right now, Austin’s not enrolled in school, so our time is flexible. You tell me what times would be good for you, and I’ll make it work. Of course, I’ll be with him.”

  “I’ll get you a key,” Sarah said to Morgan. “Since Randy and I both work and Tucker comes with me, that makes the most sense. We can work out the timing details later. Now, how about dinner?”

  After they’d finished eating, Randy challenged Austin to a piano playoff. “I’ll start, you finish. If you think you’re up to a challenge.”

  Austin jumped up. “Bring it on.”

  Sarah excused herself to put Tucker to bed, telling Morgan she should join the guys.

  She’d been listening to Austin play. Why should it be so much harder to watch? She could do this. She would do this. She’d have to do this. For Austin.

  “My Gram and I used to play this game.” Randy sat at the keyboard of the upright piano. Two cats looked up from beds in the corner, yawned, and went back to sleep. Randy tapped the bench for Austin to sit beside him.

  Austin took a seat and looked at Randy, a gleeful challenge in his eyes.

  You used to be that excited about playing. Why are you hiding from the magic?

  For the next half hour, Morgan listened—and watched—as Randy began playing, then stopped abruptly. Without missing a beat, Austin’s fingers hit the keyboard and continued, repeating what Randy had demonstrated by coming to a halt mid-phrase and waiting for Randy to pick up the piece.

  Back and forth they went, playing Mozart, Chopin, Schubert, and Debussy. How had Randy known what was in Austin’s repertoire? Of course. He’d looked at his sheet music.

  “I’m getting you with this one,” Randy said, and strains of Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” poured from the keys.

  “No, you’re not.” Austin added his hands to the keyboard, and the two finished the number as a duet.

  Sarah clapped. Randy swiveled on the bench, took Austin by the hand and led him in an exaggerated bow. Morgan added her applause and stood. “Sorry to break this up, but we have a dog at home that’s due to be let out. Thank you all for a wonderful evening.”

  Austin echoed her thanks, his smile genuine this time.

  COLE MOVED TO THE DOOR and flagged the paramedics, who gave the room a once-over, then attended to the fallen Mr. Grossjean.

  His daughter’s shrieks of “Daddy. Don’t die, Daddy,” were doing nothing to help the situation.

  Cole stepped between the woman and her father. “Miss Grossjean, you need to let the medics do their job. Does your father have a heart condition? Allergies? Any other medical issues they should know about?”

  “Ask her.” Christine glared in Alma’s direction. “That floozy’s responsible. Carrying on with a seventy-six-year-old man, for God’s sake. That was her plan all along. Marry him, then give him a sex-induced heart attack. You lose, bitch. He’s in no condition to get married now, and you won’t get a dime.”

  Alma tossed her head. “Did you not hear me, dimwit? He’s already made out a new will, and I’m in it.”

  “Oh, you think so? I’ll see you in court.”

  Cole gestured to Brody, who helped Alma to her feet. “This will all get sorted out later. Right now, we’re taking a ride to the police station.”

  “Are you arresting me?” Alma asked. “Because I have rights. Which you’re supposed to read me.”

  “I told you before,” Brody said, “the cuffs are for everyone’s protection, and at the moment, no, you’re not under arrest.”

  “I still want a lawyer,” she said.

  “You can call one from the station, ma’am.” Brody marched her outside.

  Cole guided Christine to a spot
within earshot of the medics, but where she wouldn’t interfere with their work. They asked questions about her father’s medical history, most of which she couldn’t answer.

  A medic slipped an oxygen mask over Mr. Grossjean’s face and hooked him up to an IV, while the other attached leads to monitor his heart.

  “What’s happening?” Christine shouted at an eardrum-splitting pitch. “Daddy. Don’t die.”

  “Just routine monitoring, ma’am. He seems to be stabilizing. We’re going to take him to the hospital, let the docs check him out.”

  “What happened, Daddy?” she asked.

  “Ma’am, he shouldn’t try to talk now.” The paramedic chinned toward the door.

  Cole led Christine to his cruiser and got her settled in the backseat.

  “You can take these handcuffs off now, can’t you? I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice hadn’t dropped, either in pitch or decibel level.

  “Sorry, ma’am. It’s policy.” Cole advised Dispatch of the situation and started the car on the longest, loudest six-minute trip to the station since he had started working in Pine Hills.

  Brody and Cole turned the women over to Kovak, the detective on duty. Let his eardrums take the pounding.

  Cole grabbed a snack from vending and worked on his report.

  Brody stopped by his desk. “A couple of pieces of work, those two women.”

  Cole read over his report, decided he’d covered all the bases, and hit Submit. “Can’t say Mr. Grossjean impressed me, either. At least he was wearing clothes this time.”

  “Do I want to hear the rest of that story?” Brody asked.

  Cole told him. Brody shook his head.

  “Alma’s lawyer show up yet?” Cole asked.

  “Not yet, but he’ll argue she was in fear for her life.”

  Cole snickered. “From an attack by a deadly vase?”

  Another disbelieving head shake from Brody. “Or a crazed person wielding it. Alma will claim she meant no harm.”

  “It was Christine who was staring down a gun barrel. What do you bet Christine’s going to argue she was in fear for her life and snapped? After all, she didn’t bring that vase with her. No premeditation.”

  Brody raked a hand through his hair. “We just bring ’em in. Detectives deal with sorting things out. The courts can have those two.”

  “Those two aside, any word on how Mr. Grossjean’s doing?” Cole asked. “Be nice if he could shed some light on where he stands with his daughter and his ... girlfriend.”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Cole checked the time. An hour til end of shift. Time to get back to what he’d planned before he’d been called away, which was to swing by Morgan’s neighborhood.

  On the off chance she’ll be out in the yard?

  Yes, he confessed to himself. He just wanted to see her.

  You’ll see her when you’re working on her house repairs.

  He checked in with Nolan, the duty officer, who was reading the report he’d filed. She looked up, brows winging upward. “You have got to be kidding, Patton. You ever want to write a book, this is one for it. Resume your patrol duties.”

  Cole went to his cruiser and pointed it toward Elm Street. Remembering Morgan’s words, that everything was for Austin now, that it was too risky for them to be together, a vise clamped on his stomach. He drove on.

  If Morgan did get custody of Austin, could Cole be part of their lives? He’d just met the kid, but he liked him. After reading the Dublin police reports, Cole understood Austin’s initial reluctance to open up, but he thought he’d made strides into getting the kid to accept him as a person, not a cop.

  How long would it take for the custody issues to be resolved? Would Morgan wait for him? Did she care enough to wait? How long did you stay out of circulation for somebody you’d known a week?

  As long as it took.

  Cole continued his route, with stops to help a kid who’d taken a tumble off his bike and bent the wheel, and issue warnings to a couple of speeders. Another quiet day in Pine Hills, if you didn’t count the Alma, Christine, and Bruce adventure. End of shift was approaching, so he went back to the station. He had enough time to change before second shift roll call.

  Since he had nothing pressing in his personal life—dammit—he opted to satisfy his curiosity and took a seat in the back of the briefing room.

  A hand on his shoulder had him jerking upright. Connor.

  “Thought you’d like to know I matched two sets of prints from your Coke cans to prints in the Mustang.”

  Chapter 35

  “YOU HAD A GOOD TIME, didn’t you?” Morgan asked on the drive home from the Detweilers.

  “Yeah. It was fun. Not like a lesson, or plain practicing.”

  “You’re getting off easy this time. Next time, it’ll be plain practicing.” She poked him in the shoulder and grinned.

  He threw a mock salute, matching her grin. “Yes, Ma’am. Mr. Detweiler said the first times, it’s about the notes, but then it all goes inside you and turns to music. Gets into your soul. Mr. Nakamura used to say ‘You have to feel it.’ I like the way Mr. Detweiler put it better.”

  Morgan had trouble answering. Her music lived in her soul, and that’s why she was so conflicted. “Did Mr. Nakamura teach you rock and roll?” she asked instead.

  Austin ducked his head, and Morgan knew if she looked at him, his cheeks would be a deeper shade of mocha.

  “Mrs. Reardon let me play modern stuff after I finished my lessons. That’s okay, isn’t it? She said there were no rules about playing one kind of music.”

  “She’s absolutely right,” Morgan said. “You have a special gift for classical, but as long as you don’t skimp on your lessons, variety is fine.”

  Morgan wished her mother would’ve had the same attitude. Morgan wouldn’t have felt like she was breaking unwritten laws of music when she’d played around with the contemporary hits. When her mother wasn’t home, of course.

  She did the best she could. She shouldn’t have tried to do it all.

  Promising herself she’d learned from her mother’s shortcomings, Morgan told Austin that when he practiced at Randy and Sarah’s, he could play whatever he liked after he finished his lessons, just like at Mrs. Reardon’s. “We can order sheet music for songs you’d like to learn.”

  “Cool.”

  They drove up to the house, and Morgan stopped in back, by the garage. As she got out and opened the heavy garage door, then back into the car to park, then out again to close it, she added an electric garage door opener to her ever-growing beanstalk. Seemed as if every time she lopped off a branch, two more grew.

  “Can we take Bailey for a walk?” Austin asked.

  “Sure.”

  As they worked their way around the block, Morgan wondered why Austin hadn’t shown more signs of grief after the initial shock of finding out his mother died. She didn’t get the impression he was putting up a brave front. Rather, he’d shoved everything away.

  Morgan knew he’d have to face it, work through it, but she didn’t feel comfortable bringing it up. Not until she had a better grasp of how to handle it.

  After Austin had gone upstairs to bed, Morgan settled on the couch with her laptop and checked her email. Her financial planner had responded, saying the numbers from Uncle Bob’s ledger might have represented investment accounts.

  Every investment company uses its own numbering system. Unless you know where the money was invested, there’s no way I can think of to check.

  He went on to cite a couple of examples from her own portfolio and said he’d send funds within a couple of days, with his usual admonition not to mess around with her investments.

  The market’s in a crazy state right now. You don’t have as much to play with as last year, and I can’t predict what it’ll do next year. It’s a time to remain conservative.

  She replied, thanking him for his time, agreeing that she trusted him to know what was best, that this was a one-time money j
uggle.

  Should she bother asking Uncle Bob’s firm if they recognized the numbers? She composed an email, attached the photo she’d sent to her advisor, and hit send. A negative response, which she expected, would mean one more avenue crossed off her list. It would justify her decision to let the ledger mystery go into a what difference does it make? mental file.

  An email from Cole quickened her heart rate. The subject line read just in case. He’d summarized what he’d found about crime in Austin’s neighborhood. The reports he mentioned corroborated Austin’s story about the shooting two years ago. He also included links to archived newspaper articles.

  As expected, there had been quite the furor when the police officers had been judged as acting appropriately considering the circumstances. The two cops had been white and Latino, the victims Latino and black.

  Morgan reflected on what Cole had said to Austin. That nobody really knows what’s going on in someone else’s head. People, she’d learned, believed what they wanted to believe, and that was often based on what they’d been taught to think.

  Given that Austin was ten at the time, and more apt to believe his peers than the adults in his life, it made sense that he might not trust cops.

  Would allowing more interactions with Cole or Randy help change Austin’s perceptions? Could she continue seeing Cole without being tempted to have more than a platonic relationship? Would that hurt her chances to get custody of Austin?

  Sobs from upstairs sent her running. Austin was sitting up in bed, Bailey licking tears from his face.

  “Momma,” Austin said, his voice teary and barely audible. “I dreamed she was here. But she’s not coming back. Why did she have to drink?”

  Morgan’s eyes burned. Her throat closed, making it impossible to answer. She sat beside him, enveloped him in her arms, and joined him as he cried.

  COLE FOLLOWED CONNOR to the lab. “Thanks for keeping me in the loop. Is this enough to pull them in?”

  Connor handed Cole a file folder. “Maybe. Would have been better if they hadn’t all been drinking the same kind of soda. I’ve got two matches, and you’ve got prints from three suspects. No way to know which two boys left prints in the car, or when.”