Secrets to the Grave

33

The adrenaline for the upcoming confrontation coursed through Mendez all the way to the Morgan home ... then crashed. Steve Morgan’s Trans Am was not in the driveway.

“Maybe it’s in the garage,” Hicks said.

“It was parked outside last night.”

“Last night? What are you doing? Stalking the guy?”

“I was just driving around, thinking. I came by here.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m tenacious. It’s only obsession if there’s nothing to back it up.”

They sat at the curb for a moment, Mendez regrouping his thoughts.

“Let’s go in,” he said. “We’ll talk to Mrs. Morgan. Light a fire.”

Sara Morgan was not pleased to see them. It took her several moments to come to the door. She was dressed like a welder in bib overalls and a heavy leather apron with equally heavy leather gloves. Her hair was up in a messy topknot with long curls slipping free all around.

She looked like she hadn’t slept or eaten in days.

“Detectives,” she said, pulling the gloves off. Her hands were raw with cuts and scratches. She had given up on the Smurf Band-Aids. The sculpture she had told him about was taking a hard toll on her.

“What a surprise,” she said with no surprise in her voice at all.

“Mrs. Morgan,” Mendez said. “Is your husband at home? We need to speak to him.”

“What about?”

“It’s of a sensitive nature, ma’am,” Hicks said.

“Are you going to accuse him of sleeping with Marissa again?” she asked bluntly.

“Uhhhh ... well ...”

“Don’t bother,” she said. “He’ll only deny it. That’s the first three things they learn in law school, you know. Deny, deny, deny.”

“It sounds like you’ve already had that conversation with him,” Mendez said.

Sara Morgan let his statement hang. “He isn’t home,” she said. “He called to say he’d be late. Again.”

Wendy came down the stairs then, her eyes widening a bit at the sight of two detectives in the foyer. She’d grown since Mendez had last seen her. She was going to be a knockout like her mother in another few years.

“Hey, Wendy,” he said, smiling. “How are you doing?”

She shrugged with one shoulder. She didn’t smile back. “I’m okay. Why are you here?”

Sara Morgan turned to her daughter. “They have some questions about Marissa, about ... what happened.”

Wendy huffed an impatient sigh. “Why don’t you just say it? Her murder. Marissa was murdered. Somebody took a knife and killed her.”

“Wendy—”

“I’m not a baby, Mom. I know what goes on in the world. People get murdered. People die. It’s nothing new,” she said with a bitterness in her tone that made Mendez frown.

Wendy looked up at him with unblinking blue eyes. “Do you know who killed her?”

“No,” he said. “We’re still gathering information. Your mom and Ms. Fordham were friends. We thought she might be able tell us something about Ms. Fordham we don’t already know.”

Satisfied with that answer, Wendy moved on. “How’s Haley? Is she going to be all right? Where is she?”

“She’s going to be fine,” Mendez said. “Anne Leone—Miss Navarre—is looking after her in the hospital until we can find some relatives.”

Wendy’s demeanor lightened considerably at that. She turned to her mother. “Oh, Mom! Can I go see her? Please!”

“Wendy loves Haley,” Sara Morgan said, her own expression softening as she looked down at her daughter.

“Can I go see her in the hospital? Please, please, please!”

She turned to Mendez again. “I was going to get to be her babysitter next year. After I turn twelve. I could have handled it this year because it’s not like I’m a regular eleven-year-old. I’m very mature for my age.”

“I know you are,” Mendez said.

“I don’t know if they’ll allow visitors, sweetie,” Sara Morgan said.

“I’ll ask,” Mendez offered.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Wendy said, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if the excitement weren’t going to be contained in her body. She turned toward her mother. “I’ll take her something special. Can I make her a card? Please? Can I go in your studio and make her a special card?”

Her mother ran a hand lovingly over Wendy’s tangled mermaid’s mane that matched her own. “Sure, sweetie. Make her something really special.”

Wendy bolted back up the staircase and disappeared.

Sara Morgan watched her go. There was a fine sheen of tears in her eyes when she turned back to them.

“I don’t get to see her that excited very much anymore,” she said.

“That must be hard on you,” Mendez murmured. It occurred to him that a lot of things in her life were hard on Sara Morgan. He halfway wanted to put his arms around her and give her a shoulder to cry on.

Maybe more than halfway.

“Ma’am,” Hicks said. “Do you know where your husband was Sunday night?”

“He was in Sacramento all weekend for a golf tournament. I couldn’t tell you what time he got in Sunday night. I didn’t hear him. When I came downstairs Monday morning he was sleeping on the sofa.”

“I hate to have to ask this,” Hicks said, “but do you think your husband was involved with Ms. Fordham?”

“I don’t know,” she said sadly. “And frankly, I don’t want to know anymore. My marriage is as over as it’s going to get. I just don’t know how to leave it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mendez said softly, even though a part of him wasn’t. She deserved better than Steve Morgan. She deserved to be happy.

Hicks drew breath to ask another question. Mendez headed him off at the pass.

“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan,” he said. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”

“I was going to ask her where she was Sunday night,” Hicks said as they walked back to the car.

“Leave her alone.”

“If her friend was sleeping with her husband, she had as much motive to kill Marissa Fordham as anyone. Maybe more. And did you see her hands? They’re all cut up.”

“She’s making a sculpture, working with metal.”

“Since when? Monday morning?”

Mendez started the car. “Let’s go find the asshole she’s married to and ask him.”