Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  “You? Why you? He was my uncle. In fact, that’s where I’m going and what I’m doing tomorrow. Until Uncle Bob’s lawyer gets things moving with utilities, there’s nothing I can do at the house anyway.”

  She stood. “I’ve had a long day. I’m going to head out. What’s my share of the dinner?”

  “Forget it. Your first meal in town is on me. Part of my obligation as your welcoming committee.”

  She reached into her humongous purse. “I’m not fond of obligations, Officer Patton. What’s my share?”

  The coolness in her tone said things had taken a downward plunge.

  “I misspoke,” he said. “I should have said it was my pleasure, not my obligation. Because I did have a good time. Maybe we can get together again. It’s Cole, not Officer Patton, Ms. Tate, since it’s not official police business.”

  “Then you can call me Morgan. Getting together will be fine, if you have anything else to share about my uncle. My treat.”

  Given he had no authority to poke around anything other than databases Morgan could access herself, they might not be getting together for a good long while.

  Chapter 5

  LEAVING COLE TO SETTLE the check, Morgan headed for the door, sneaking what she hoped was a discreet glance at the group Officer Patton—Cole—had said were his coworkers. A mix of men, women, and ages. She was too tired to do anything but stride by, eyes on the door. The hostess gave her a broad smile and a Have a good evening. Morgan thanked her and stepped out into the cool night air, perfumed with the scents of today’s rain. Fresh, damp, and earthy.

  Driving the short distance had seemed too much trouble, so she’d walked. It was not even seven, still plenty of daylight left, and several of the shops were still open so she felt no qualms being out alone. Besides, there was a whole table full of cops not far away. Would Cole join them now that she’d left?

  She slung the tote over her shoulder and headed for the inn. The fresh air revived her, but her thoughts zipped toward bed. Tomorrow would be a new day, a new start.

  She’d reached the corner and was waiting for the light to change when she heard her name. Morgan turned to see Cole walking briskly in her direction. Given the light was still red, she waited. She couldn’t deny she’d felt more than a modicum of attraction. No. She wasn’t ready to consider a relationship.

  Why was she thinking about a relationship? She was new in town, and a friend who knew the ins and outs could come in handy. Emphasis on friend. Cole’s being a cop might be a plus, too, in case she uncovered anything ... unsavory ... in the boxes in the basement.

  “You’re walking?” Cole said.

  “It’s not far, and after days of driving, the exercise will do me good. Are you saying it’s not safe to walk the streets of Pine Hills?”

  “No. I mean, yes, it’s safe. I thought ... you might like company.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “It’s a public street.”

  The light changed, and she stepped off the curb.

  There she went again, being rude when he was trying to be friendly. Friendly. Was it because he was a man? If the officer who’d taken her statement at the station had been female, asked her to meet for dinner, offered to help figure out what was going on with Uncle Bob’s house, would Morgan be avoiding her the way she was avoiding Cole?

  Probably not.

  Definitely not. She’d have lingered over coffee, talked about Pine Hills, asked for shopping recommendations, and made arrangements to meet again.

  “Sorry,” she said as they crossed the street. “I guess my filter reset needs more fine-tuning. Yes, I’m happy to have your company, even though it’s not necessary. I meant it when I said I was tired, and my brain’s not doing a very good job of sending and receiving messages. I promise to be more civil if we meet again.”

  “Can I do anything to change that if to a when?” Cole asked. “Even if I don’t have more information about your uncle? I will keep looking,” he added.

  “I appreciate that.” Morgan slowed to glance in the window of a bakery. Confections by Ashley. “These any good?”

  “Oh, yeah. Ashley’s engaged to Scott Whelan, one of the unsworns at the station, and we all benefit because she provides breakroom treats. Day-olds, but you’d never know it.”

  “Unsworns?” Morgan asked.

  “Civilian. Used to be a cop. If you’re a coffee and a pastry person, you won’t go wrong there. If you prefer a more breakfasty breakfast, Sadie’s is a good choice.” He gestured down the street, in the opposite direction.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, given the Castle Inn doesn’t include dining options.”

  “Not beyond vending machines. There’s a coffee station set up in the lobby in the morning.”

  They walked in companionable silence the rest of the way. At the walkway to the inn, Morgan stopped. Even if Officer Patton had been a woman, even if they’d had dinner and friendly conversation, Morgan would have said her good-byes here. What she’d said to Cole was true. Her brain wasn’t functioning. Sleep was a priority.

  “Thanks again for dinner,” she said. “I’ve got some unpacking to do. And sleeping.”

  “Same here. I’m on first shift tomorrow, so I have to be in before six. If you’ll give me your phone number, I can let you know if I find out more about your uncle. I’ll give you mine, if you’d like. Otherwise, you can reach me through the station, although I might not be able to respond immediately.”

  Cell phone number exchange? No, it was okay. That still fit within friend to friend boundaries, even if they’d just met. Morgan pulled out her phone, opened her contacts. “Shoot.” She giggled. “Or isn’t that something you should say to a cop?”

  Cole’s grin warmed her. Nothing wrong with joking around with a new friend.

  “Only in the line of duty, and even then, not without extreme cause,” he said. “The paperwork’s a nightmare.”

  They exchanged numbers. Morgan dropped her phone into her purse and hunted for her room key. She tugged it out, waved it, and said, “Good night. Thanks again.”

  She didn’t turn, but sensed Cole waiting until she’d gone inside.

  Mr. Death-Warmed-Over glanced her way from behind a magazine, gave an almost imperceptible nod of greeting, and resumed his reading. An elderly man and a young woman sat in the lobby, the man in a wing chair near the fireplace, the woman in an easy chair in the far corner. The man appeared to be dozing, the woman was busy using a cell phone.

  Wi-Fi. Right. Morgan strode to the counter and waited until Mr. Death-Warmed-Over looked up.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Is there Wi-Fi in the guestrooms?”

  He frowned and opened a drawer beneath the counter, then handed her a slip of paper. “Free in the lobby, five dollars a day in the guestrooms. Passwords are here.”

  Morgan gazed at the paper, seeing connection instructions and the passwords. “Thanks.” She didn’t push the issue of why he hadn’t mentioned it when she’d checked in. Then again, she hadn’t asked. Not a big deal, since she hadn’t had time to use it yet.

  She noted a stack of flyers she hadn’t seen earlier, offering a discount at Sadie’s for guests of the inn. Morgan slipped one into her purse. Cole had recommended it, and while a chocolate pastry was tempting, a more sensible breakfast was a smarter option.

  She trudged up the stairs, texting Austin as she walked.

  Getting settled. Hang in there.

  She hoped the short message would lift his spirits. Assuming his parents hadn’t taken his phone and sold it. Again.

  Morgan unlocked her room, hesitating before entering. Could the housekeeper who had issues with Uncle Bob have come in? Could she have sabotaged the room somehow?

  ONCE MORGAN WAS INSIDE the Castle, Cole meandered back toward The Wagon Wheel. It had been obvious Morgan hadn’t wanted an escort to the door, nor would she invite him to her room. That—should it ever happen—was a long way off. Although his libido was sending not-so-subtle messages that it was something to h
ope for.

  His car was in the city lot behind the restaurant. Should he go inside, have another drink with the gang? No, they’d ask him too many questions about Morgan Tate. Questions he didn’t think he could answer. He’d go home, dig deeper into Morgan’s Uncle Bob.

  He stopped in the lobby of his apartment building, checked his mailbox. Junk, as usual, which he tossed into the blue plastic recycling bin, thoughtfully provided by the management. Upstairs, he flung his jacket over the back of the couch, plopped himself down, and booted his laptop.

  “Hey, Siri. Play my unwinding playlist,” he said to his speaker.

  With Iron Maiden playing—loud enough to get into, not loud enough to disturb Mrs. McPherson next door—he started through the list of sites Google had provided from his search.

  Even with the limited information Morgan had offered, it wasn’t hard to find the Robert Tate who had to be Morgan’s uncle. Robert Morgan Tate, to be exact. Had she been named after him?

  Information was sketchy at best. Robert Tate was a registered Democrat, a Rotarian, retired from a Salem investment firm after thirty years with the company, owned the Elm Street property. Nothing waved red flags. If Tate was good at his job, it stood to reason he’d done well for himself, too.

  Cole looked up the Willamette Valley Villas and gave a low whistle. Uncle Bob must have done very well for himself. Deep down, the place was an assisted living center with medical facilities, including hospice care. To look at their website, it was country club living all the way. They didn’t list prices—you had to contact them for such mundane matters—but Cole figured pretty penny didn’t come close.

  Typing Robert Tate and the name of the finance firm he’d worked for didn’t help. Their website was up to date, but Tate wasn’t listed anywhere on the site. Not unexpected, if he’d retired years ago.

  Cole searched the newspaper archives for the weekly police blotter that listed arrests. No Robert Tate. No hints as to why a housekeeper at the Castle had reacted the way Morgan had described. He wondered what he’d find out if he used the law enforcement databases.

  He set his laptop aside, retrieved a pad of paper, pen, and a Dr. Pepper from the kitchen, then returned to the couch.

  Follow the money. Rule number one in detective work. Or was rule number one Search for the woman? They ran neck and neck, he thought, but wrote money on the notepad. If there had indeed been a falling out between the Tate brothers, could it have been over money? He added Falling Out? to his notes.

  Why hadn’t he asked Morgan her father’s name? If Cole searched for her, it should come up. Doing a background check, even via social media and public search engines, seemed like an invasion of privacy.

  Why? It’s standard practice when people meet, especially before a first date.

  It wasn’t a date. Just dinner. To discuss something she’d brought to his attention.

  Not you. The Pine Hills Police Department.

  She was from Ohio, she’d said. No city. Big enough state to have a lot of Morgan Tates. On a whim, he plugged her name and Ohio into the search engine.

  Yep. Five million plus results.

  His playlist had ended, and he’d collected little valuable information. Everything was speculative until he knew more. He yawned. Tomorrow. After shift, he’d be off for three days. Would Morgan put off her trip to Salem so he could go with her? Or was she going to talk to the lawyer in Portland?

  He reached for his phone. No, she’d said she was exhausted—and he didn’t want to wake her.

  He got up, dropped his empty can into his recycling bin, and headed for the bedroom.

  Lying in bed, thinking about Morgan—beyond her attractiveness—he stared at the ceiling. Didn’t like going into the basement, but did it anyway. Had a smart mouth. Was gutsy enough to pull up stakes and move to a new house in a new state, a new city, sight unseen. What else could he learn about her? There were layers he’d like to peel back, like eating an artichoke, to get to the heart of Morgan Tate.

  CHANGING INTO HIS UNIFORM at the station the next morning, Cole fastened his vest, giving it the tap that had become his ritual.

  For you, Jazz.

  He shrugged off the inevitable locker room questions from his colleagues about who he’d been with last evening with the simple truth, turning them around to see if he could learn more about Uncle Bob. “She’s new in town. Inherited the Tate place on Elm.”

  He explained the graffiti that had brought her to the station. “I was on call, caught her report. Detweiler sent me over to check it out. She wanted to know more, so I said I’d try to help.”

  “Didn’t hurt that she was hot.” Brody jabbed him in the ribs. “Think the monk might leave the monastery?”

  Cole ignored Brody’s reference. So what if his reputation was that of a loner. “Not complaining. It was dinner. Nothing else. You guys have all been here longer than I have. Anything you know about the property or the man—Bob Tate—who lived there?”

  Blank looks and head shakes all around. Whoever Bob Tate was, he seemed to be a nondescript citizen. Which made the housekeeper’s reaction all the more curious. He might swing by the Castle after shift.

  Upstairs, at roll call, Kovak stood at the lectern going through the daily updates. Routine, typical for Pine Hills.

  Cole’s mind wandered. His ears perked up when Kovak mentioned the Tate house and the message Morgan had reported.

  “Odds are it was a prank,” Kovak said, “written years ago. Scott Whelan’s been researching the last five years’ missing persons reports, but he’s fishing in a very large pond. On the slim—very slim—chance whoever wrote the message killed someone and disposed of the body, and the even slimmer chance that said individual has been keeping an eye on the house, then the presence of a new tenant might scare him into trying to cover up his crime. Eyes and ears open out there, everyone. It’s a teacher planning day, so kids will be taking advantage of their freedom. Keep things in check.”

  Kovak gathered his briefing notes and said, “Questions?”

  When there were none, he closed the briefing with his usual words. “Do good work, everyone. Go home alive.”

  So, the department was taking Morgan’s report seriously. Cole planned his patrol route to loop around Elm Street. Several times. Good police work. Nothing to do with seeing Morgan.

  Chapter 6

  AT SADIE’S, MORGAN forked up the last of her omelet. Chastising herself for thinking the housekeeper would have sabotaged her room based on a connection to her uncle, she stared out the window. Where to go first? Salem or Portland? The boxes in the basement would have to wait until there was electricity and plumbing.

  Cole had offered to go with her tomorrow. Was there a reason to wait? If she left now, she could fit both visits in today, and what could Cole add to the mix? She didn’t need a cop. Or an escort.

  Then again, it would be nice to have company on the drive. It didn’t hurt that he was good-looking company. Easy to talk to. She could prove she wasn’t the bitch she’d been yesterday. She’d awakened at six after sleeping straight through the night, a solid ten hours. Austin had returned her text with a thumbs up emoji, so at least he still had his cell. Using phones at school was off limits, so she’d told him she’d try to catch up tonight.

  Mr. Hathaway first, she decided. Knowing more about Uncle Bob might answer the question about the message on the wall. Pinning down the exact conditions of the trust now that she’d seen the house was a higher priority.

  Inside Sadie’s, tables filled. Outside, sidewalk traffic picked up. Moms pushing strollers, a man herding six dogs on a tangle of leashes. Shopkeepers setting up sidewalk displays in preparation for opening. She smiled. Main Street, USA. Hopes for her dream rose.

  She’d start in Portland. She should make an appointment. At least let Mrs. Braithwhite know she was coming, verify Mr. Hathaway had followed up on yesterday’s conversation.

  At the inn, Mr. Death-Warmed-Over had been replaced by a cheerier woman. Alt
hough the woman appeared to be a contemporary of his, it was amazing what a smile could do for a face, even one mapped by wrinkles.

  “Good morning,” the woman called out.

  Morgan returned the greeting and went upstairs. A housekeeping cart blocked the doorway to her room. Was it Phyllis? Morgan tapped on the jamb and said, “Hello?”

  The housekeeper—and yes, it was Phyllis—came to the door, a questioning smile on her face. A smile that disappeared when she recognized Morgan.

  “This is your room?” she asked. “Can you show me your key, please.”

  Morgan complied. “May I come in for my laptop?”

  “I will be done in fifteen minutes,” the woman said, pushing her cart out of the doorway.

  “That’s fine.” Morgan stepped to the desk where she’d left her laptop. She faced the housekeeper. “Please, if you don’t mind, can you tell me why me being related to Bob Tate upset you so much yesterday? I never knew the man at all.”

  Once again, the woman crossed herself. “He was a wicked, evil man. That is all I can say. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” She pivoted and went into the bathroom. The water cascading into the tub signaled the conversation was over.

  Evil? Wicked? What had Uncle Bob done to earn that kind of a reputation? From what Cole had said, nobody else had any memories of him at all. If he’d been some kind of monster, surely more people would remember. Had her parents known? Were they responsible for Uncle Bob disappearing from her life?

  Could the writing on the wall somehow be related to her uncle’s death? He’d been living in Salem, at the health care facility for years, and had died recently. She didn’t think there was a way to tell when that message had been painted, but her impression was that it had been there long before Uncle Bob’s death.