by Kimberly van Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming (The Sinclairs of Alaska)
Why did it feel as though she was talking about him? That was ridiculous. He was being defensive. “Well, at any rate...she’s ready for you. I just wanted to warn you before sending you into the lion’s den.”
“Additional insight from family members is always appreciated. Thank you for trusting me with that information. Oh, and FYI, the coffee here will put hair on your chest. Very strong.” And then she left, coffee cup in hand, out the door and down the hall, inadvertently causing a flush of awareness to remind him that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman.
Where’d that come from? Catching an eyeful of that pert behind twitching beneath her pencil skirt? He rubbed at his eyes, embarrassed by his inappropriate thought about his mother’s therapist. Maybe he’d jumped the gun in breaking up with Elizabeth. Having Elizabeth here might’ve been a distraction he seemed to need, he thought wryly, even if he knew he couldn’t possibly have brought Elizabeth to his hometown without creating mixed signals. Elizabeth...it would’ve been so much simpler if he’d felt the same way about her that she had about him. But when he realized the deeper emotions she’d craved weren’t going to happen, he couldn’t, in good conscience, keep seeing her.
He exhaled and shook his head as his gaze wandered to the coffeepot. Well, maybe a cup of strong, bracing coffee would put his thoughts back on the straight and narrow. It was worth a shot.
* * *
MORGAN ENTERED JENNELLE Sinclair’s room with a ready smile, hoping to start off on the right foot with the matriarch but judging by the tight press of the older woman’s lips, an easy time of things wasn’t in the cards. No worries, she thought. She’d definitely weathered more difficult challenges than one stubborn, older woman.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair. How are you feeling today?” she asked, setting down her coffee cup and taking a seat beside Jennelle’s bed. “May I call you Jennelle?”
“No, you may not. I prefer Mrs. Sinclair.”
Morgan smiled. Jennelle Sinclair was going to be one tough nut to crack but then she’d known that from the start. At least Jennelle didn’t give her false hope of an easy case. “Of course. No problem. My name is Dr. Morgan O’Hare and I’ve been assigned your case by Adult Protective Services.”
“And what case would that be?”
“Well, you’ve recently had a health scare and the state of your home was a contributing factor—”
“I don’t believe that for a second. That’s a bunch of rubbish.”
“Well, no, actually, it isn’t. Your home has been condemned due to unsafe conditions and yet, you went back to the house, which then put your health at risk when the paramedics couldn’t quite get to you in time.”
Jennelle looked away, angry brackets forming around her mouth when she couldn’t refute the evidence. “I guess you have all the answers. What do you need me for?”
“Well, I am going to evaluate your mental health status to determine if you are competent to make decisions for your health and well-being.”
“I never heard of such poppycock,” Jennelle exclaimed, two high points of color flushing her pale cheeks. “Of all the rude, intrusive and ridiculous statements. My mental health is just fine. So I’m a terrible housekeeper. Is that a crime nowadays?”
“No, of course not. But it’s our job to make sure you’re not putting yourself in harm’s way.”
For a long, tense moment Jennelle seemed to struggle with all the pent-up fire in her chest but her health simply wasn’t up to the challenge and she sagged against her pillow, wincing as she lost the strength to rage. “Do whatever you need to do,” she said with weary bitterness. “I’m tired of fighting a losing battle. You people are going to do what you want, anyway. My consent is hardly necessary.”
Morgan frowned. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Sinclair. Perhaps within a few days you’ll feel better about the process. Change is always difficult but once you embrace the therapy, good things can happen.”
Jennelle sent Morgan a withering glance, and Morgan withheld a private sigh. She was definitely going to earn every penny with this case. But there was something about the older woman that struck her as terribly sad, in spite of her bark. She settled more comfortably in her chair then said, “Tell me about Simone...” At the mention of her youngest daughter’s name, Jennelle softened and her shoulders relaxed but the overwhelming sadness remained in her eyes. When Jennelle didn’t volunteer any information, Morgan tried to help her along. “My younger sister, Mona, knew Simone in school. She said Simone was the prettiest and nicest girl in their grade.”
At the kind words, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile curved Jennelle’s lips. “Yes, that was my Simone. Everyone loved her. She had a light that shone from her soul,” Jennelle said, choking a little. “Sh-she was the light of my life. I miss her so much. I don’t understand who would’ve done such a horrible thing to her.”
Ah, there it was—the pain, the sadness, lurking ever so close to the surface, a demon of grief and impotent fury, twisting everything good and sweet into a pulpy, bleeding mess. What would it take to draw out that poison? Would Jennelle be willing to let it go? Some people clung to their misery, too afraid of the unknown to set it free. Only time would tell which camp Jennelle called home. Morgan commiserated with the older woman. “And as I understand it, her killer was never brought to justice?”
“No, the trail went cold and then interest dropped. Simone’s case was shoved into a file and never touched again. I tried to resurrect the case, even posted a reward for information, but nothing came of it. Nobody cared anymore. They didn’t want to hear about Simone’s murder any longer, unless it was to gossip about it.”
Morgan knew that much was true but hearing it from a family member plucked at her heartstrings. “Cold cases are hard to solve without a major break in the case. Technology simply hasn’t caught up.”
“They took DNA samples from her body but nothing came up in their databases. How could someone who would do something so heinous not show up in the police database? Surely, this wasn’t their first time. What if there are other girls out there who’ve been victimized by the same psychopath?”
The anguish in Jennelle’s voice was real. The questions in her head and heart gave her no peace. Morgan suspected this was the root of Jennelle’s hoarding—trying to hold on to things as a surrogate for her dead daughter, who was ripped from her without warning.
“Sometimes answers don’t come to us in a timely manner but we can’t let those questions rule our lives,” Morgan said carefully. “There are many questions surrounding Simone’s death and there might be an answer someday but then again, there might not. It’s a cruel twist of fate, for sure, but tearing your own life apart and pushing away your remaining children will not bring her back. Was Simone close to her siblings?”
“Yes. All the kids were close. We all used to be so close.”
“And then she died.”
“Yes.”
“Your other children didn’t give you comfort?”
“There is no replacing one child with the other. Besides, no one was like my Simone. She was my baby.”
“How does Miranda feel about that?”
“She’s jealous.”
“Jealous? Or perhaps hurt?” Morgan suggested, and Jennelle closed her eyes, refusing to comment. Morgan jotted down some notes. “You are very angry with your daughter Miranda. Why?”
“Because she’s a wretched human being.”
“Okay. Why? I’ve spoken with Miranda and she seems very worried about you. Does that seem like the actions of a bad person? I can tell you that I’ve met and worked with bad people and she doesn’t seem to fit the criteria.”
The door that had opened briefly once again slammed shut and Morgan knew sharing time was finished when Jennelle said, “I’m tired. I did just have surgery. Surely, APS will take that into con
sideration.”
Morgan snapped shut her notebook and deposited it into her satchel. “Of course. I’ve enjoyed talking with you. I’ll come back tomorrow to finish my evaluation.”
Jennelle’s mouth tightened, but she shrugged as if she was helpless to stop Morgan.
Morgan gathered her things and let herself out of the room quietly.
The poor woman was eaten by bitterness and grief. She needed lots of intensive therapy to breach the walls she’d erected around herself to guard against the pain.
A walk in the park, it wouldn’t be.
But she wanted to help this family. For some reason this case mattered to her on a personal level.
Perhaps that wasn’t wise, but she needed to help this family heal. One thing was for sure; when she was busy with tough cases, it quieted the ghosts of her own past.
At least for a little while.
CHAPTER SIX
MORGAN SIPPED HER WINE, enjoying the warmth from the crackling fire as her younger sister, Mona, returned from the kitchen, carrying a variety of cheeses on a small plate. “I noticed you still keep that nasty Limburger around. I thought you hated that cheese?”
“I do,” Morgan agreed, reaching for a slice of regular cheddar with a cracker.
“Then why do you keep buying it? All it does is stink up your fridge.”
Morgan shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”
“Well, that’s a dumb habit. It stinks and you don’t even eat it.”
Morgan smiled but remained silent. She couldn’t help herself. She tried not to buy that stupid cheese but David’s voice was in her head and before she knew it, the cheese was in her basket.
“Only a sophisticated palate can appreciate the robust flavor of a European cheese. If you want to elevate yourself, you have to stop gravitating toward the white-trash fare.” The subtle sneer in David’s voice rang in Morgan’s memory and she forced a smile. Mona didn’t know about David’s peculiar opinions nor did she know about who he really was. What made it worse was that Mona had adored David.
“So what’s new?”
“Not much. Just the same old stuff.”
Mona wrinkled her nose. “Sounds riveting.”
Morgan laughed. “Not everyone lives the exciting life of an artist, sweet sister. Speaking of art, how did your latest gallery showing go? I’m sorry I missed it. I had a client run overly long and I couldn’t seem to get out of the office on time after that.”
Another lie. That was the night she’d driven to Anchorage in the hopes of attending a grief support group but she’d chickened out—as she always did—and lost out on supporting her sister for nothing. Morgan busied herself with sipping her wine as she listened to her sister chatter on about this and that, as well as a bit of gossip.
“I made a few sales, which will keep me in ramen noodles for the next couple of months if I don’t live too extravagantly,” Mona ended with a twist of her mouth. “I definitely have that starving-artist thing down. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be, for sure.”
“You could supplement your income with a second job,” Morgan suggested cautiously, and hoped her sister didn’t fly off the handle as she sometimes did whenever anyone in the family gave her grief about her career choice. “I mean, just a temporary thing to bolster your budget, of course.”
“An artist can’t split her creativity between the mundane and the sublime. C’mon, Morgan, you know there’s really nothing out there that I would enjoy. Can you see me working for a fishing outfit or behind a cash register? I would die inside.”
“Yeah, but paying your rent on time and being able to buy groceries is a nice thing,” she reminded her sister then raised her hand to stop Mona before she got on a roll. “You know I support your artistic endeavors so don’t lose your cool...all I’m saying is, you’re not a kid anymore and I know you’d catch less flack from Dad if you finally picked a career that paid in actual money and not just exposure and goodwill.”
“What would Dad know about being an artist? He’s a third-generation fisherman like every other guy in this town. I think you managed to snag the one and only man who had any sophistication and class. It’s probably because he wasn’t from here originally.”
Morgan refrained from comment and chose to sip her wine instead, not that Mona noticed.
“I mean, David was the kind of guy who knew what wine to pair with food and recognized that there was a difference between red and burgundy on the color wheel. The guys around here have one color palette—and it’s the eight basic colors of a crayon box.” Mona sighed and took a sip of her wine, ending with a grumpy, “I miss David.”
Morgan nodded and downed her wine, forcing a brief smile, and Mona’s eyes widened with sympathy. “Oh, my God, I’ve been such a selfish jerk going on about David when I know you’re still not over his death. That’s why you keep that stinky cheese, isn’t it? It was David’s favorite. How could I forget that? I’m sorry, sis.”
“You’re fine. I’m fine. I’m getting over David’s death. I really am.” Something caught in her throat and Mona became alarmed when Morgan choked a little. “I’m okay. It’s been a long day is all. I have a new case that’s a little sad and I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“New case? What’s it about?”
Morgan hesitated, then relented, saying, “Do you remember Simone Sinclair?”
“Of course. Why?”
Morgan shared only what had likely already made the rounds within town gossip. “Her family is having some real troubles and I’ve been called in by Adult Protective Services to evaluate the mom.”
“Why?”
“She’s a hoarder.”
“Eww. As in living-in-a-garbage-dump type of hoarder?”
Morgan made a face. “Well, not exactly but she put herself in harm’s way and I need to determine if she’s competent to make decisions for herself. It’s all very sad. The mom is still grieving for her lost daughter, so much so that she’s pushing away her remaining children.”
“That sucks.”
“Yes, it does. What do you remember about the Sinclairs? I only knew them peripherally.”
Mona leaned back and tucked her feet under her as she settled into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “Well, Simone was drop-dead gorgeous. I don’t know of any guy who didn’t have a major crush on her. She was super involved in school and really nice. I mean, some girls who seem to have it all have rotten personalities but Simone was sweet. At least, she was to me. I liked her. We didn’t run in the same circles but, I don’t know, she was never rude to me.”
“Yeah, I think her sister, Miranda, was in my class and Trace was a class above me but we didn’t know each other. Wade was three years above me. I remember he drove a burgundy Blazer, which I thought was cool.”
“Hmm...have you met with the family yet?”
“Yes, I met with the siblings yesterday and the mom today. I feel bad for the family. So broken up with pain from the past. It’s a tragedy.” Sometimes when Morgan talked she felt as if someone else were moving her mouth and she was watching herself from the outside. Here she was talking about the Sinclairs being unable to move on and that was exactly her problem, too. She glanced at her empty glass. Another? Sure, why not? David wasn’t going to pop from the bedroom and stare her down for indulging. She reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass.
“Are you okay?” Mona asked. “You seem off today.”
Morgan chuckled. “You worry too much. I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Should I go?”
“No, of course not. I love your visits. Helps take my mind off my troubles for the time being.”
“Well, having a screw-up sister will do that for you.” Mona raised her own glass. “Happy to help.” A companionable silence passed between them until Mona said, “You kno
w I loved David and he was probably the most amazing husband ever but you’re still really young and I hate the idea of you being all alone. I almost wasn’t going to tell you but if you’re interested, I have somebody who might be your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Well, he’s kind of like David. He’s too old for me but he might be perfect for you.”
“Are you saying that I like to date old men?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying as much as I love a sophisticated man, I’m thinking me and this guy just wouldn’t be a good match.”
Morgan sighed. She wasn’t ready to date, not yet. Maybe not ever. David had broken something inside her and there was no putting it back together again because she didn’t even know which pieces were missing. The fact that she couldn’t tell anyone—couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone—made it all that much worse.
To outsiders, she appeared the grieving widow. But her private self was a raging inferno of guilt, shame and yes, even grief. Why did she mourn him? Did she miss him? A little. Before things got really bad, David had been a good husband. It’s just that the bad times had eventually eclipsed the good. By the time she realized she was living in an abusive marriage, she was locked into it. Only Remy knew. To everyone else, David had been a doting husband and pillar of the community. His funeral had been standing-room only, which had shocked her numb. “I appreciate the offer but I’m just not ready to date right now,” she murmured, ready to drop the subject.
Mona nodded vigorously but there was a desperation to the action that made Morgan wary. “Of course you’re not. I totally understand. David is a hard act to follow. But what would going to dinner hurt? Let me at least tell you about this guy and then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”
Morgan sighed, humoring her sister. “All right, tell me about this guy,” she relented. Maybe if she let Mona get it out of her system they could put it to rest.
“Well, he actually owns the gallery that I just had my showing in. His name is George Founder and he sort of looks like Sean Connery but without the Scottish accent. He’s very distinguished. I think you guys would hit it off.”