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MORGAN THANKED TRISHA Forsythe, a harried mom with twin toddlers, who lived in the house behind Uncle Bob’s.
“It’ll be nice to have someone living there,” Trisha said. “My husband’s a firefighter, and he and some of his colleagues have a part-time handyman service. You know, in case you need someone to help with fixing up the place.”
Morgan thanked her again, saying she’d definitely keep him in mind. She hurried around the block, back toward her car. She’d need to hurry to make it to Portland in time for her appointment with Mr. Hathaway.
When she rounded the corner and saw a police car parked in front of her house, her pulse tripped. Had something happened? She quickened her pace.
When she reached the house, Cole was walking from the side yard to the police car. A grin spread across his face when he looked her way, and she couldn’t help responding with a smile of her own. And a tingle lower down, one she tried to ignore.
“Anything wrong?” she asked.
“Routine patrol,” he said. “Everything looks fine. Did you get my text?”
She pulled her phone from her purse. “Had it silenced. I was trying to find a neighbor who might’ve known Uncle Bob, or at least know the reason why the housekeeper freaked.” Morgan relayed the housekeeper’s answer after this morning’s encounter.
“So that’s a dead end, at least for now. Any luck with the neighbors?” Cole asked.
Morgan shook her head. “The ones who were home all moved in after he’d left and hadn’t heard anything about Uncle Bob. Another dead end there. I have to get going. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with the lawyer in Portland.”
“Would you like to meet for dinner?” he asked. “We could compare notes.”
Dinner with Cole? Would she want company if Mr. Hathaway couldn’t find a way she could avoid living in the house until it was more ... livable? She wouldn’t know until after her meeting.
“I’ll let you know.” She got in her car and backed out of the driveway.
And there was the matter of Austin and his music. He’d missed another lesson. Mr. Nakamura had pointedly reminded her that without twenty-four hour’s notice, he charged for the missed lesson. She knew that all too well. The man was the best in the area, and he seemed to understand Austin’s situation, so she put up with his frequent displays of self-righteous arrogance.
Save it. Nothing you can do from here. The missed lesson was probably due to Austin’s mother. Calling in Children Services will do more harm than good. You need to establish yourself here. And soon.
Pushing thoughts of Cole and Austin out of her head, she made it to Mr. Hathaway’s office building with fifteen minutes to spare. She hadn’t risked stopping for food on the way.
When Morgan entered Mr. Hathaway’s office, a woman about her age sat at the reception desk. Morgan blinked twice as she read the nameplate. Lois Braithwhite? This was the stodgy Mrs. Braithwhite? Short brunette hair with gold highlights. Shiny red lips? Red blazer over an abstract print, scoop-necked blouse in bright, primary colors. Was that a hint of a tattoo above her collarbone? Dangly earrings sparkled in the overhead lighting.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
The voice was right.
Morgan collected herself as she readjusted her image of an older—much older—woman who wore her gray hair in a bun and dark-colored pant suits with high-necked blouses. And sensible shoes. Morgan couldn’t see Lois Braithwhite’s lower half, but she’d bet her shoes were anything but sensible.
“I’m Morgan Tate.” She extended a hand. “I have an appointment with Mr. Hathaway at eleven-thirty. I don’t know how long our meeting will take, or if we can continue it somewhere nearby for the lunch I promised to provide.”
Lois Braithwhite’s smile as she accepted the handshake revealed perfect white teeth. She reached into her lower desk drawer, brought out a file folder and laid it open on her desk. Menus. Lots of menus. She plucked one and handed it to Morgan. “The starred items are his faves. I can have lunch delivered.”
Morgan readjusted her assessment of the woman. Not at all stodgy. She scanned the menu, her mind still in disconnect mode. “Why don’t you pick? All of these look fine. I’ll pay, of course.”
“That’s not necessary.” Lois Braithwhite put the menus away. “We have an account. I’ll have lunch there today and take care of your order.”
The woman picked up her phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Hathaway? Ms. Tate is here. I’ll take my lunch break now and bring yours back with me.” A pause while she listened. “I’ll send her in.”
Lois? Mrs. Braithwhite? Morgan didn’t know how to think of her. The woman flashed her perfect teeth again and motioned to the hallway. “Go right in. Third door on the left.”
The woman stood to leave, and Morgan paused long enough to check out her shoes. Red. Narrow, three-inch heels. Hardly in the sensible category.
Morgan ambled down the hallway, counting the doors. The first said Staff Only, the second was unmarked, and the third said Edmund Hathaway. She knocked.
“Come.”
Morgan opened the door and stepped inside. Mr. Hathaway was a much closer fit to the image she’d imagined. Salt-and-pepper hair, fashionably styled. Black-framed glasses on a long, straight nose. Very regal looking.
“Won’t you sit down, Ms. Tate. Would you like some coffee? Tea? Water?”
She requested water. He stepped to a small fridge in a console along the side wall and brought her a bottle, along with a glass from the coffee station.
Morgan set them beside her. “What have you been able to do about the inheritance and the trust? If you saw the pictures, you know there’s no way anyone could live in that house in its current state.”
“I agree,” he said. “I did spend a considerable amount of time going over the terms of the trust. I apologize that I couldn’t get your utilities turned on yesterday, but if you can be at the house by three this afternoon, I will ensure that the requisite companies will meet a three to five pm window.”
“I’ll make it happen.” She poured half her water into the glass and took a tentative sip.
“Very good,” Mr. Hathaway said. “As for the terms of the trust. You need to be living in the house for one year, with the clock starting within three days of the utilities being turned on, or you’ll sacrifice the house and the balance of the trust. There’s also the stipulation that you can be away no more than two days in any given month. Otherwise, the clock will reset. That can happen only once, or the house will be put on the market with the proceeds being split between the Willamette Valley Villas and three designated charities.”
Two days a month. “Do the days accumulate?” she asked. “If I don’t leave the house in a given month, do I get four the next month?”
Mr. Hathaway shuffled through the papers. “No, they don’t.”
“Understood.”
“There are funds allocated for repairs. I will verify the amount. I’ll need your banking information so I can transfer the funds to your account. You can buy a bed and move in as soon as it’s delivered.”
“There’s effectively no kitchen.” She gave him an imploring gaze. “If I eat out every meal, I’ll be spending a fortune. Then there’s remodeling. Even if I don’t move any walls or do any actual reconstruction, there’s a ton of repair work that needs to be done. Isn’t there a way I could live somewhere else until I have more than a bed? I promise to stop by the house every day.”
His eyebrows lifted above the frames of his glasses. “People live at home during remodel jobs all the time, Ms. Tate.”
Her heart sank. She hid behind her water glass. “Understood. What if they find the place has to be brought up to code and it’s not safe for me to live there? Do you reset the clock? What if it becomes part of a police investigation?”
“What?” His brows lifted again.
She explained in more detail the graffiti she’d found. “The police are looking into it.”
Morgan saw no need to tell him they’d said they didn’t think there was a crime involved. Hadn’t Cole said they were keeping their eyes out in case someone came back? That had to count as looking into it.
She fished her phone from her purse and scrolled through her photos until she found the graffiti image, a picture she hadn’t sent to Mr. Hathaway.
His brows threatened to hit his hairline. “This was in the house?”
“Yes, in the master bedroom.” She cocked her head. “Do you have any idea why it’s there?”
“I do not. I suppose, if the police deny access to the home, it could change things. Temporarily.”
For the better—at least better for her, Morgan hoped.
Mr. Hathaway stacked the papers. “Although your uncle suffered from dementia, he was of sound mind when he drew up the trust. I suggest you move ahead as if there are no changes.”
So much for hoping for the better.
~~~
COLE SAT IN HIS CRUISER, spending the last half hour of his shift watching the road to the river park. Word must have gotten out that the cops had upped their presence, because the few teens who came through followed traffic laws to the letter. Cole had wandered through the picnic areas and the usual hideaways surrounding them. All quiet. Barring a call from Dispatch, it would be a long half hour.
His phone buzzed a text. An involuntary smile tugged at his lips when he saw it was from Morgan.
Have to wait for utility hookups. Three to five window. Dinner after?
He tapped out a reply.
Sounds good pick u up castle 6
He tapped Send and checked the time. Two hours, twelve minutes. Should they do a repeat of The Wagon Wheel? Sadie’s? Somewhere nicer? Morgan said next time would be her treat, so picking a more expensive place might not be fair. She’d also said that was if he had news about her uncle to share, which he didn’t.
He let his mind wander. Morgan could make the decision.
He radioed Dispatch he was en route to the station. Of course, an idiot was weaving all over the road. Texting and driving? Drunk? Cole flipped on his lights and fell in behind the car—a powder blue classic Mustang—as he radioed in the plates.
Registered to a Vance Ebersold, DOB February 19, 1958. The man happened to be the manager of the Pine Hills Bank and sat on the town council. Registration and insurance up to date. The car slowed and pulled over.
Cole stopped behind him, tapped his vest, then got out and approached, touching the trunk of the car with his forefingers to verify it was closed. Plus, should anything happen, there was evidence Cole had been there.
What Cole found was not a sixty-one-year-old man. More like sixteen. The kid was fumbling with his zipper, and his passenger, a girl who seemed a couple years older, was hastily tugging at her skirt.
His day for sexual encounters.
He asked for identification.
The boy was Randall Ebersold, claimed he had his dad’s permission to use the car. The girl was twenty-one—more than a couple of years older—and lived in Cottonwood. What was she doing hanging out with a sixteen-year-old? There were no indications either of them had been drinking. According to Dispatch, Randall had no record, so Cole let both off with a warning—a stern one—about not doing anything other than driving while driving, and told them to go home.
The kids exhibited mortification instead of belligerence, and Cole breathed a sigh of relief. He had no desire to have to confront Vance Ebersold with his son’s behavior, although he’d definitely mention it to Chief Laughlin. Politics was his domain.
In Chief Laughlin’s office, after Cole presented his reasoning, there was a long, uncomfortable silence while the chief drummed his fingertips on his desk. Cole waited, his mouth dry.
Was he going to get the reputation of a cop who ignored the letter of the law? Although Cole had long passed his rookie status, he was still the newest hire, and therefore, the low man on the totem pole.
The chief stopped his drumming and met Cole’s gaze. “What would you have done had it not been the son of a member of the town council? Or happened ten minutes before end of shift?”
Cole straightened to full attention. “Given identical circumstances, the same thing, Sir. I believe our job is to keep Pine Hills safe, and to make our citizens feel we’re all working toward the same end. Showing them we understand there are gray areas, in my opinion, promotes a better attitude toward cops. As for it being right before end of shift, that had no bearing on my decision. We work until the job is done, Sir.”
Chief Laughlin gave an approving nod. “Since Randall had no priors, I’ll have a quiet word with Vance, let him know that we’re willing to cut some slack for first-time offenders, even ridiculously stupid ones. Randall did not get a Mulligan because of who his father is. I’m confident there will be consequences of a parental nature. Good job. File your reports and have a good evening.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Cole pivoted and headed for his desk to write up the incident. Given there was no arrest, the information would be kept in a separate database. That way, if Randall Ebersold became a repeat offender, the officer who picked him up would be aware of his prior indiscretions, but nothing would go beyond Pine Hills.
Once it was filed, he changed into his civvies and headed for his apartment to get ready for dinner with Morgan. It was closing in on five. Had all the utilities been dealt with? She hadn’t called or texted. He took that to mean she’d agreed to dinner.
Cole took a quick shower, shaved, and put on black denims and a sweater. He still hadn’t decided where they should eat. Two Wagon Wheel dinners in a row would definitely lead to intensified questions from his colleagues, questions he had no desire to answer. Not when he didn’t know the answers himself.
What could he learn about Morgan? Something that might give him ideas of where to go for dinner, or other bits of her life that could be conversation starters. Facebook wouldn’t work. Because of his job, Cole kept away from social media, so he didn’t have any accounts. Better to dig further into her uncle, which would be just as effective in opening conversations.
His laptop hadn’t finished booting when his phone buzzed a text. Morgan.
Ready now. I’ll be in the lobby.
He replied with a thumbs up.
As for conversations, asking what the lawyer had told her and how the utilities hookups had gone should be plenty to get things moving.
He grabbed a jacket and headed for the Castle.
When he entered the lobby, Morgan jumped up from a chair by the fire, a wary expression on her face.