Remaking Morgan, Page 3

  “Do you think it would be all right if I asked your mom a few questions? My uncle used to live in Pine Hills. I never knew him, but your mother might.”

  Joe shrugged again. “Guess so.”

  Morgan followed him down the stairs to a hallway on the ground floor. Joe tapped at a door marked Employees Only and opened it.

  “Mom. This lady wants to talk to you.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Let her in.” The woman’s voice was deep and gravelly, more like what Morgan had expected Mr. Death-Warmed-Over to sound like.

  Morgan stepped into the room where a lone woman stood at an ironing board. Plump. Gray curls. No apron over a gingham dress, though. Instead, she wore a shapeless light blue uniform, typical of most of the hotels Morgan had stayed in. Her nametag said Phyllis. Lines of weariness etched her face. The woman glanced up as Morgan entered, still moving the iron across the pillowcase on the board.

  Morgan introduced herself, gave an abbreviated version of why she was in Pine Hills. “I’d really like to know more about my uncle, Bob Tate. Did you know him?”

  The woman stood the iron on end. Wide-eyed, she made the sign of the cross.

  COLE TAPPED ON THE half-open door to the detectives’ office. Kovak was on the phone, and Detweiler was tapping away at his computer. Detweiler motioned Cole inside, continued his tapping for a moment, then shoved the keyboard drawer away.

  “You said you found something?” Cole said.

  “I did, but I’m afraid it’s not what you were hoping for. Bob Tate left his home for an assisted living center eight years ago. The first three years he was gone, the property was rented out to a revolving door of tenants. When the company managing the rentals went out of business, nobody took things over. That was five years ago, and it’s been empty ever since.”

  “What about rumors, scandals, small-town gossip? Missing persons? Urban legends? Ghosts?”

  Detweiler snorted. “Our job is to prevent crime and apprehend those who get past preventative measures. I couldn’t find anything to tie into a crime. If the house has a new owner, that’s a positive. Whatever she decides to do with it should improve the neighborhood.”

  “What about the graffiti? It did say somebody was dead.”

  “Since we don’t know who it’s referring to, there’s nothing of a criminal nature to pursue. I know you’d love to get your teeth into an unsolved mystery, but this one’s a dead end.”

  “Understood, sir.” Cole glanced at the clock on the wall. He was off shift in five minutes. He’d file a few more reports and be out of here.

  After surviving without another paper cut, Cole strolled to the locker room, changed into his street clothes, and retrieved his laptop.

  He wondered if Morgan Tate would meet him at The Wagon Wheel. Although he wasn’t sure why, he was looking forward to it.

  Being friendly to a newcomer, he told himself. That she was attractive didn’t play into it. Much. In addition to the physical side—nice figure, big brown eyes, an easy smile—there was the way she’d clearly been scared to go into the basement, yet she found the moxie to do what she needed to do. It would have been easy enough to ask him to take the pictures for her.

  Did she think that would make her appear weak in his eyes? Did she have something to prove to herself? After all, she’d picked up stakes and moved halfway across the country to take possession of a house, sight unseen. That took guts.

  He arrived at the steak house ten minutes early. Not really early, just ten minutes before he’d said he’d be there. And before anyone else from the station would be. He didn’t want to explain not wanting to be part of the group tonight.

  He grabbed his laptop and went inside, asking Dina, the hostess, for a table at the back. She gave him a quizzical brow lift, pulled a menu from the pile at the counter, and led him through the dining room.

  “Hot date tonight?” she asked, plopping the menu on the table.

  “Nah. I need to get some work done.” He set up his laptop.

  It’s not a date, idiot. You come here all the time, and simply mentioned to Morgan that she could join you if she wanted.

  From the way she’d answered, he didn’t think she thought it was a date, either.

  Seconds later, Will, one of the servers, appeared. “Hey, Cole. What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have a Chainbreaker to start,” he said.

  Will eyed Cole’s laptop, then shot a glance toward the larger table at the far left of the room, where the group usually sat. Cole pointed to his laptop. “Working tonight.”

  Will’s smile was more like a smirk. “Be right back.”

  Ignoring the man’s expression, Cole booted his laptop. What would the public search engines reveal about Bob Tate? Detweiler had undoubtedly gone through police channels, looking for crime and missing persons reports. Maybe Cole could discover things on the civilian side.

  He started with the obvious, typing Robert Tate Pine Hills into the search field. Alternating his attention between the screen and the front door, he waded his way through the initial hits. Would be a lot easier if Morgan were here to help him refine his search parameters.

  Will returned with his beer, and Cole took a sip before setting it aside to return to work.

  His next glance toward the door accelerated his pulse. Morgan.

  She said something to Dina, who grabbed a menu and approached his table.

  Cole stood. Tried to keep the grin stretching across his face from spreading too far. “Morgan. Glad you could make it.”

  Dina shot him a wink and retreated.

  “Am I interrupting?” Morgan asked, nodding toward the laptop.

  “No. As a matter of fact, you can help.” He pulled out a chair for her.

  She sat, back straight, those big fawn eyes wary. “I wasn’t going to come.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I got a room at the Castle Inn. It’s ... quaint.”

  “That it is.”

  “The guy at the desk is creepy,” she explained, “but the rooms are clean, and everything works. Unlike another place I could mention. What’s weird is one of the housekeepers freaked when I asked her if she knew my uncle. She did the cross thing and wouldn’t talk. Looked at me as if I was the Devil’s spawn. I’m hoping she won’t put spiders in my bed.”

  Cole wondered if he’d run into the woman. “Her name?”

  “Her nametag said Phyllis.”

  Cole drew a blank. “I doubt she’d risk her job by putting spiders in your bed. Best case scenario, she’ll make sure your room isn’t on her list.”

  Morgan cocked her head. “Why would she react that way?”

  “Dunno. What do you know about your uncle? I was trying to see if there was anything on the web that might give us an idea about the writing on the wall.”

  He realized he’d said us.

  Chapter 4

  MORGAN MOVED HER SILVERWARE and put the red-checkered napkin in her lap. Officer Patton eyed her expectantly. She wanted—needed—to find out more about Uncle Bob and the house. If this man, a total stranger until a couple of hours ago, wanted to help, she should let him. He didn’t need to know her entire life history.

  She caught herself before she yanked on her hair, and forced a smile. “Where are you starting? Googling Threatening graffiti on bedroom walls?”

  He chuckled. “I thought knowing more about your uncle would be a better place. Do you know his full name? Date of birth? Living relatives?”

  She sighed. “No, no, and no. That’s why I got the house.”

  Before the officer asked for details, a server interrupted.

  “Can I get you something to drink, miss?”

  “A glass of white wine,” she said.

  “Our house whites are a Chardonnay and Sauvignon blanc,” he said. “Or would you prefer something else?”

  Decisions. Her mind went blank.

  “Would you like a few minutes?” the server asked.

  “The house Sau
vignon blanc will be fine,” she said.

  “Coming right up. I’ll be back to take your food orders in a minute.”

  Morgan fumbled with the menu, finally prying it open. She shook out her tingling hand and rested it in her lap.

  You’re tired. It was the basement. And the creepy man at the inn. You’ll be fine after you get some sleep.

  “They make good pizzas here,” Officer Patton said. “We could split one.”

  “Fine. Order whatever you want. I’m not picky.”

  He cocked his head, his eyes twinkling. “Anchovies and pineapple, then?”

  Not the response she’d expected from a professional police officer gathering information. Was he teasing? Or flirting? She kept her expression dead serious. “Only if it’s fresh pineapple.”

  His lips twitched. “Not in season, I’m afraid. Guess we’ll have to go with pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms.”

  She nodded in agreement. Not the best wine pairing, but she didn’t have the strength to change her order to a red. Or, eyeing the officer’s glass, a beer.

  Their server returned with her wine, took their orders, and left.

  “Back to your uncle,” Officer Patton said. “Tell me anything you know about him, and I’ll see what the magic search engines spit out.”

  She raised her wine glass to her lips and took a generous gulp. “I knew him as Uncle Bob. He was my father’s older brother, someone who sent birthday and Christmas cards when I was a kid. We lived in Illinois, and he lived here, but we never visited. I have no idea what kind of relationship he had with my father.”

  “You can’t ask him?” Officer Patton said.

  Morgan took another gulp of wine. “My parents died ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged at his words, his automatic response, the inflectionless delivery. “No reason for you to be. You didn’t know my parents. For all you know, they could have been monsters and I might have wished them dead. Or killed them myself.”

  His eyes widened.

  Good grief, where was she going with this? All Officer Patton wanted to do was help her, and she was bending over backward to alienate him.

  Get a grip.

  “I’m sorry,” she hurried to add. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I guess I burned out on all the empty sympathy when they died. All words, no actions from people proclaiming they cared. I was on my own.” Another sip of wine. “It’s been a long few weeks, and I’m running on fumes. I’ll reset my filters.”

  Morgan mimed twisting imaginary knobs at her temple and mouth.

  “It’s okay,” Officer Patton said. “In my line of work, we tend to see people on their worst days. I totally understand.”

  Of course he didn’t. She managed a smile. “Can I have a do-over?”

  Officer Patton made a show of erasing an imaginary board. “Clean slate.”

  Their pizza came, and, surprised her wine glass was empty, Morgan requested a second. A Zinfandel this time. She noted the officer had finished half his beer. Should she have ordered her second glass?

  What difference did it make? She didn’t need his permission. How much he opted to drink—and his reasons—were his business. For all she knew, he’d had one—or two—before she’d arrived.

  Doing everything you can to avoid the matter at hand.

  “I’m pretty sure his name was Robert,” he said. “When did your uncle die, and where?” The officer snagged a dangling thread of cheese with his forefinger and twirled it atop his slice before taking a bite. His tongue swiped a dab of red sauce from the corner of his mouth.

  Why are you watching him eat? And thinking about what else his tongue might do? Morgan nibbled on one of the breadsticks they’d brought with the pizza, warm and redolent with the aroma of garlic.

  She set it down.

  So it’s doused with garlic butter. It’s not as if it matters. Besides, he ate two of them.

  She needed to get out of here before her long-dormant libido crawled out of its cave.

  You came to get answers. Eat. Get your blood sugar back where it belongs. That should solve half your problems.

  The wine would solve the other half. Or create more.

  She picked up her breadstick and took a generous bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Back to business. “Salem. The Willamette Valley Villas. He died two months ago, on February eighteenth.”

  “Great.” A chagrined expression swept over his face. “I didn’t mean ‘great’ that he died. I meant ‘great’ that I can look for his obituary, talk to the people where he died, maybe pick up something useful.”

  “I should do that,” she said. “Until today, I had no reason to think about anything other than dealing with the inheritance. Now there’s the whole writing-on-the-wall thing.”

  “Which could be totally unrelated. My boss said the place was rented out for three years after your uncle moved out. After that, it was empty. Anyone might have gotten in to leave the message. Which might be a joke.”

  She sipped her wine. Set down the glass. “Or, it might mean someone was murdered.”

  “IT MIGHT.” COLE FOLDED the last slice of pizza and tried to take a bite without being covered in dripping cheese and tomato sauce. The Wagon Wheel didn’t skimp on toppings. From the way Morgan was eyeing him as he ate, he thought ordering a steak or the meatloaf would have been smarter. Less mess. Morgan ate slowly. Delicately. Yet an underlying tension etched lines around her eyes and mouth.

  If she was passing judgement on the way he ate, too bad. He swiped the napkin across his mouth and took a swig of beer. From behind him, sounds of the typical post-shift unwinding session drifted through the dining room. Cole figured his absence—and presence at another table—had been noted, and he’d be grilled about it tomorrow.

  “So, you won’t investigate?” Morgan asked.

  Cole snapped his attention back to her. To the puzzle he wanted to solve. “I ran it by my superior. He pointed out that without evidence of a crime, there was nothing to investigate.”

  “You’re not curious?” She took another sip of her wine.

  “Sure I am. But curiosity doesn’t open a case.” He finished his beer. “You want dessert? They make a killer cheesecake.”

  “No, thanks.” She held her hands in front of her, fingertips all touching, and pushed them in and out, like doing the spider pushups movements he’d done as a kid.

  Cole motioned to Will and ordered the cheesecake, more because he wanted to pick Morgan’s brain awhile longer than because he was hungry. Plus, he was enjoying the time with her. “Two forks,” he added.

  Will’s expression didn’t change, except for his eyes, which sparkled. “Coming right up.”

  “I’m really not hungry,” Morgan said.

  “Since when do you have to be hungry to eat cheesecake? One taste. After all, if you’re going to be living in Pine Hills, you might as well sample everything the city has to offer.”

  The tension lines around her eyes and mouth softened. “You’re right. I keep forgetting I’m moving here. I’m waiting to hear from my uncle’s lawyer. See if he can broaden the interpretation of the terms of my inheritance. Maybe I should make a trip to his office in Portland, see if a face-to-face meeting brings better and faster results. Given Uncle Bob’s mental faculties took a sharp left turn after he moved to the Villas, there might be some loopholes.”

  “Would you leave if there were?” Cole wondered why her answer should make a difference. Sure, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to good-looking women, and Morgan fell into that category with plenty of room to spare. But this felt ... different. New.

  He shrugged it off. The message on the wall had intrigued him, and because it was Morgan’s house, she intrigued him.

  Maybe she’s just intriguing to begin with.

  Morgan twisted in her chair, as if watching for Will and the cheesecake, avoiding his question. Had he crossed a personal boundary line? It had seemed like a reasonable thing to ask. />
  Will approached with the cheesecake and an extra plate as well as a second fork.

  Cole picked up the knife from his place setting and hovered it over the dessert. “How much?”

  Using her fork, Morgan traced a line a scant inch in from the wide end. “I’m a sucker for a Graham cracker crust.”

  Cole furrowed his brows. “As you wish.” He cut along the line she’d drawn and shifted the morsel to her plate.

  She forked up a tiny bite. A few stray crumbs lingered at the corner of her mouth, and her tongue darted out to retrieve them.

  His imagination led him down a path he had no business pursuing. He’d keep things cool, casual. Technically, there was no reason he couldn’t consider getting to know her better. Detweiler had said there was no case, so there was nothing to tie Morgan to the department’s hands off policy between officers and victims or complainants.

  She hadn’t answered his question about staying in Pine Hills, and Cole decided to let it drop. She’d just arrived and had an understandable scare on top of what had to be a major disappointment at the condition of what was supposed to be her new house. Plus, she’d already admitted to being tired. He should finish his cake and let her get back to the Castle.

  “Coffee?” he asked instead.

  “Why are those people looking at you?” she said, ignoring his question again. She was good at that.

  “Who?” he said, although he knew she was looking at the gang’s usual table. Might as well be honest. “People I work with. Probably wondering who you are.”

  She took another minuscule bite of her cake. “What are you going to tell them?”

  “You’re new to town. You came into the station with a question about the house on Elm Street, and I offered to play welcoming committee.”

  “Small committee,” she said.

  He shrugged. “You want a bigger committee? I could introduce you around.”

  “Another time, maybe,” she said. “Right now, I’m wondering how the conversation detoured. I wanted to know why the housekeeper freaked when I told her I was related to Bob Tate.”

  Cole scraped up the last remnants of his dessert. Wagon Wheel did make the best cheesecake he’d ever had. Something he’d never mention to his mother. “I’d say we hit a roadblock, not a detour. We’re stuck here until I can talk to people at the care center where he died.”