The Secrets She Kept

2

THE SMELL HIT him the hardest—that familiar scent of the island, with its briny waves lapping up over the beaches, the soggy wood rotting around the dock and the damp wind sweeping over the fecund marshes to the southwest. As Keith drove his midsize rental car off the ferry, which ran every three hours between eight and eight since they’d added one more crossing at night, he couldn’t help taking a deep breath and feeling as nostalgic as he was apprehensive.

From what he could see, not much had changed in the past five years, but he lowered his head to get a better look as he entered Keys Crossing, the island’s only town. An elaborate display of exotic flowers adorned the windows of Love’s in Bloom, the flower shop that Josephine had purchased with some of the money she’d inherited, along with the house and everything else, from Grandpa Coldiron. The shop, or “shoppe” as she’d had it spelled on the sign, also sported a new coat of pale green paint.

With the sun setting behind the building, only those details could be seen in the dim glow of his headlights, but he assumed that the place looked as appealing as ever. Josephine had always had good taste.

Sitting back, Keith studied the Drift Inn on the other side of the street. Its marquee advertised a “winter special” of $99/night. The vacancy sign below glowed orange and would probably remain lit until the tourists came in spring to swell the ranks of the local population, which stood at about 2,500. There wasn’t a lot to do on Fairham during the winter, especially in damp, windy weather such as they were having now. He could see the dark outline of the palm trees up ahead, on the ocean side of the island where he was going, swaying as black clouds blocked what was left of the fading sun.

A storm approached. He felt like one of those black clouds rolling in—and he had no doubt many of Fairham’s residents would feel the same. He didn’t have a good reputation here. The locals would consider him bad news, the prodigal son returning. But he deserved it; he certainly hadn’t done anything to make anyone admire him back when he lived here.

He checked his watch. He’d taken the second-to-last ferry of the day; it was a little after five. He wondered what Maisey was doing. They’d spoken several times since that ominous call that’d disturbed his sleep. He’d spoken to Roxanne in Louisiana more than once, too. And yet he hadn’t told either one of his sisters that he was coming to the island today. He’d known Maisey would insist on meeting him the moment he got off the ferry, and he felt reluctant to face her so soon. He needed time to acclimate, to ease into the memories that were rising up and washing over him as if he’d been caught out at high tide.

Ease... He chuckled without mirth. Aside from the connection he felt to his grandfather, which sometimes made him homesick, and a general feeling that he belonged here, coming back was as difficult as he’d expected, especially when he thought about the reason for his visit. His mother was only sixty-three. She’d always been so healthy. At times, she’d seemed darn near indestructible.

What had gone wrong?

When Maisey called him yesterday, she’d said the coroner was expecting to rule their mother’s death a suicide. The police had found an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the marble floor of the bathroom, as if she’d tossed them back with a glass of wine.

But Keith couldn’t believe she’d do that. Having the police tramp through her house to find her naked in a bathtub would be humiliating to her. If she was going to commit suicide, she’d put on her most flattering dress and arrange herself on the bed.

Except that she wouldn’t commit suicide at all. Swallowing a bunch of pills and sinking beneath the water would smack too much of giving up, of admitting that her life wasn’t perfect. Josephine was all about appearances. Some of Keith’s worst beatings had been triggered by incidents he’d shared with other people that were unflattering to her—usually about the severe punishments she’d doled out to him.

And there was more than her pride to consider. She had spent almost every living moment protecting her beauty and trying to turn back the hands of time. Why would she fight aging so much if she’d had a desire to end it all?

Something else had to have happened. An accident. Or—he hated to acknowledge the possibility—murder wasn’t an entirely unreasonable conclusion. His mother had plenty of enemies. She hadn’t been the kindest person in the world. Most of the time, she hadn’t been kind at all.

But Fairham had almost no crime. Keith couldn’t believe that anyone here would harm her. He’d asked Maisey if anything had been stolen or if there was any sign of forced entry, and had been told there wasn’t. Even the five-carat, $90,000 diamond ring on Josephine’s finger hadn’t been removed.

Since Pippa, his mother’s housekeeper, typically went home at night—and worked only five days a week—his mother had been alone in the house, taking a bath with her pills and her wine. Barring some injury to her body, which the coroner presumably hadn’t found, Keith could see why the police had reached the conclusion they did.

But they didn’t truly know her...

He passed The Sugar Shack, the barbershop, the burger stand, The Wild Rose Café and the Fairham Marina. Then the road began to climb. Most of the islands off the coast of South Carolina were flat, but Fairham had a sizable hill on one side, which they called a “cliff.” Although it wasn’t much of a cliff by most people’s standards, it was high enough that someone could be killed by falling onto the rocks below, especially a child. They’d once believed Roxanne had fallen onto those rocks and her body had been dragged out to sea. Coldiron House gripped the top of that hill and peered down on the rest of Fairham Island like an eagle guarding its clutch.

A sudden deluge of rain hit his windshield, hard as rocks, as he rounded the final bend in the road and encountered the tall gates of the fence that circled the property. Through the rhythmic slash of his wipers, he stared at the ornate wrought iron with the elaborate C in the center, wondering if he was going to have to call Maisey for the code.

He assumed he would. But it took only three tries to get the gates to open. The code turned out to be his birthday—ironic considering that he and his mother had been estranged for so long. She’d loved him, in her own twisted way. That was the part that always messed with his head, and his heart.

His phone rang as he parked near one of five garage stalls. Stacia Snider, his assistant, was trying to get hold of him. On the West Coast it was only two thirty. But he silenced his phone instead of answering. He couldn’t deal with her now, couldn’t deal with anything else. He felt as if his mother had her hands around his throat and was squeezing...

A memory flashed before his mind’s eye. She’d choked him once, when she’d gotten worked up and gone too far. After she released him, he’d spit in her face, and then she’d really let him have it. That was the only time he ever remembered his father stepping in. Malcolm had been so passive. Whenever Josephine got upset, he’d simply hunker down and wait for her anger to blow itself out. The funny thing was, no one ever wanted him to do anything else. The situation just got more volatile if he tried to insert himself. Josephine had to win at everything, which was partly what had caused Keith’s problems with her. He was the only one who ever stood up to her, who ever fought her complete domination—at least until Maisey got older and walked out on her. Just like he did later...

The car pinged as he got out, reminding him that he needed to turn off the headlights. His BMW did it automatically; he’d forgotten that most cheaper vehicles didn’t.

Although the rain was still falling heavily, soaking his hair, jacket and jeans, he spent a few minutes searching for the groundskeeper, Tyrone, to no avail. The place looked deserted. Since it was after five, Tyrone must’ve left. Or maybe he hadn’t come today. No doubt Josephine’s death had thrown the hired help into chaos. If Keith had his guess, they were all at home, fearing they were out of a job, grieving for their own loss if not for the loss of their tyrannical employer.

Flinging his wet hair out of his face, he hurried up the front steps to the wide veranda. The door was locked but, within minutes, he found the key hidden behind the porch light—the same place it had been since he was a teenager. Although he didn’t want to think about it, that meant anyone else who knew about the spare could’ve gotten in without breaking a window or making a fuss...

He swung open the heavy front door and stepped into what he had, for years, sarcastically referred to as his mother’s “palace.”

The scent of fresh-cut flowers, which were changed regularly, rose to his nostrils. That was when the fact that she was really gone hit him—conjuring up a startling and profound sense of loss. Regardless of what his mother had done over the years, what he struggled to forgive, she’d been a magnificent woman in many ways. He’d never known anyone stronger or more determined to reach whatever goal she had in sight. Everything she did was done well. She had a sharp tongue but a sharp mind, as well—coupled with the face and figure of a femme fatale, a woman who’d looked two decades younger than her true age. Everyone’s head turned when she walked into a room; he remembered certain moments when he’d taken great pride in being connected to a figure people revered that much.

Maisey had often told him he couldn’t get along with her because they were too much alike. He hadn’t been able to see it then, but these days he could easily recognize that they both had to be on top, in charge. They were what his father used to diplomatically refer to as “strong” personalities.

His father hadn’t admired “strong” personalities quite like Grandpa Coldiron had.

God forbid that Keith made other people’s lives as miserable as his mother had made his—although he certainly used to.

Thinking of Grandpa Coldiron, Keith walked into the dining room, where there was a giant portrait of his grandfather looking every bit as somber and austere as the paintings of the old aristocracy hanging in the castles and palaces of Europe. His grandfather had been a “strong” personality, too. And he had accomplished great things. There were benefits to the genes he’d inherited, Keith decided—as long as he could control his temper and his drive.

Before the quiet stillness could press too close, he left the dining room and took the stairs up to the second story. He found no crime scene tape, nothing to bar him from entering certain rooms. Coldiron House was eerily normal, far more normal than he’d thought it would be. When someone as powerful as his mother passed away, shouldn’t there be more to mark the event?

Once he reached the double doors of her bedroom, he had to pause, to brace himself for what he might see. He didn’t expect to encounter a bloody mess, or anything like that, but he knew he’d imagine finding her the way he’d been told she was found—and that would be disturbing.

Another expansive flower arrangement confronted him when he went in, only this one hadn’t been ordered as part of the household routine. He knew because it included a card.

Keith wasn’t in any hurry to reach the bathroom. He was too busy preparing for what the sight of it might do to him. So he took a second to see who the flowers were from.

I can’t wait.

H

“Hugh,” he said to himself, recalling the name Maisey had given him. His mother and Hugh were obviously looking forward to having a good time together.

Her designer luggage was pushed off to one side but appeared to be packed. A quick check confirmed it. That answered the question he’d asked Maisey early Sunday morning, when she’d called to tell him about their mother’s death. The bed was turned down, too, another indication that his mother had expected to live longer than she did. Her wrap was tossed across the velvet bench nearby.

Had the police missed all of this? Why would she bother to pack or turn down the bed if she knew she wouldn’t need luggage or a place to sleep?

Feeling his muscles tense, he rounded the corner—and entered the bathroom.

3

THE WATER HAD been let out of the bath, but several wet towels remained on the floor—where her body had obviously been placed after it’d been pulled from the water. Pippa must not have been back since his mother died or she would’ve cleaned this up...

Had the police told the housekeeper that she couldn’t or shouldn’t come back? Or was it that she wasn’t sure if she’d get paid?

The police must’ve taken the wine, the glass and the pill bottle, because none of that was in the bathroom, or even in the trash.

Pulling out the chair of his mother’s boudoir, Keith sank onto the tiny beige seat. At six foot six, he was much bigger than she’d been at five-eight. His knees came up too high, but at least he had a perch from which he could examine the place where his mother had died.

Why had she drowned? There had to be a reason, and it wasn’t that she’d decided to end her life right before a trip to meet her new love in Australia.

Her phone. He needed to check her phone. There could be answers there, a text or a call that would give him some clue. She always had it with her. But he went through the whole suite and couldn’t come up with it. Her computer wasn’t there, either.

He’d just realized the police must’ve taken both when he received a call himself.

Maisey. If he answered, he’d have to tell her he was in town, and he wasn’t ready to do that. He needed answers, some understanding before he could focus on her needs and her grief.

But he understood what she was going through—and that made it impossible to ignore her call.

As he hit the talk button, he happened to turn enough to catch sight of himself in the mirror. So many people had told him he was the spitting image of his mother. Even he could see hints of her in his face. They both had high cheekbones, wide mouths, prominent chins, thick dark hair. They also had the same blue-green eyes, a color so unique he’d had strangers stop him on the street to tell him how arresting his eyes were. Maisey’s and Roxanne’s eyes were the same color. But his sisters had a calm temperament, like their father. He was the only one who’d inherited their mother’s tempestuous nature and extreme stubbornness.

“Maisey? What’s going on?” he said into the phone.

“They’ve scheduled the autopsy for first thing in the morning,” she replied. “With any luck, we’ll know more after they’re finished.”

He walked out of his mother’s room and down the hall, where he felt he could breathe again. “Don’t let ’em do it.”

“Excuse me?” she said. “I have no say over that. It’s a state law. They have to perform an autopsy in this situation. So even though the coroner is fairly certain he knows the manner of death, we have to let him do his job.”

“I’d rather he didn’t handle this, Maisey. I’ll take over from here.”

There was a long silence. Then she said, “Keith, you can’t take over. This isn’t up to you.”

“I’ll get my own pathologist, someone I’m convinced is good and that they trust, too. If I pay for it, I’m sure they’ll let me. Why wouldn’t they? It’ll save the state the money they’d have to pay otherwise.”

“Why would you get involved?”

“So I can be certain that whoever does the autopsy isn’t just going to confirm what the coroner’s already said. I’ll hire someone who hasn’t been previously conditioned to see Mom’s death as a suicide.”

“You really think that’s necessary?”

“Mom didn’t kill herself, Maisey.”

“You believe it was an accident?”

He poked his head into his old bedroom. This was where his mother used to tie him to the bed to force him to take a nap, not that the room looked the same as it had then. All his toys and sports trophies had been moved to the attic years and years ago, almost before he was old enough to part with them. Josephine had hardly been able to tolerate the childish things her kids had liked when they were young. She’d considered anything with theme-park characters or superheroes “tacky” and got rid of it as soon as possible. So his bedroom had been updated—more than once. But he was looking at the same black wood shutter-style furniture with the expensive yellow and gray bedding and drapes he’d had when he lived here five years ago; nothing had changed since then.

Given the season and the fact that he didn’t think anyone had used his room in years, he found it odd that the ceiling fan was on. He watched the blades swoop overhead, stirring the air. The police must’ve walked through the house and accidentally hit the switch—

“Keith?” Maisey said.

He crossed to the window and opened the drapes and shutters so he could gaze out over the sloping lawn at the turbulent sea beyond, gleaming like crushed diamonds in the moonlight. The view was the one thing he had missed. Even what he saw outside the windows of his house in Santa Monica couldn’t compare to the island, especially in the midst of a storm.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he said above the howl of the wind as it hit the house. “No one takes a bottle of pills by accident.” His sister had to know that; she was just reluctant to accept the alternative.

“You’re not saying...”

“Mom was murdered.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It’s absolutely true,” he insisted.

“No. No one on Fairham would hurt her. We know—and love—all the people she associated with.”

The people she dealt with on a daily basis were a lot easier to get along with than she was... “Plenty of people on the island have been upset or frustrated by her over the years. Maybe she let Tyrone go, and Tyrone...snapped.”

“Are you kidding me?” Maisey cried. “It wasn’t Tyrone. For one thing, she didn’t let Tyrone go. I would’ve known if that was the case. Mom had Rafe and me and the kids over for dinner Friday night. To say goodbye before her big trip. Tyrone was leaving for the day when we arrived. It couldn’t have been Pippa, either. She served us that night. And she was the one who was supposed to drive Mom to the airport.”

“Pippa hasn’t been here since Mom died,” he said, remembering the water on the master bathroom floor. “Do you have any idea why?”

“Here?” Maisey echoed in surprise.

He grimaced at the slip. “I’m at Coldiron House.”

“And you didn’t tell me you were coming?”

“I’m sorry.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I just got in. Needed some time to myself.”

Seconds passed. “I see,” she said at length, and rather stiffly.

“Please don’t take it personally,” he said. “Coming here without calling is about me, not you.”

She seemed to soften. “Okay. But it seems strange that you didn’t let me know. I’m your sister and I’ve never done anything except try to love you and watch out for you. You’d think—”

“Maisey, please!” he broke in.

“Fine. I’ll let it go,” she said. “We’re all coping with this the best we can. But...surely we can’t be looking at murder.”

“There’s no other alternative that fits,” he argued. “I’m surprised the police aren’t saying the same thing. Her bags were packed. And there’s a flower arrangement from her boyfriend saying he can’t wait to see her. No one commits suicide just before a romantic trip to Australia, especially one that’s already been paid for. Everything I’m seeing suggests Mom was excited, not depressed.”

“Maybe, at the last minute, she and Hugh got into a fight and he asked her not to come. Maybe she was disappointed. Or he told her some of the things we’ve been dying to say.”

“Like what? That she’s insufferable? Was insufferable?”

Maisey sighed heavily. “Basically. That could’ve pushed her over the edge. Criticism is difficult for everyone, for her most of all. She couldn’t tolerate any of it.”

“I’d consider that a possibility, except that most of the men in her life have been playthings. People who exist purely for her entertainment. She’s the only one she’s ever really loved. So why would she kill herself over something some guy said?”

“She’s the only one she’s ever loved? That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?”

He winced. It was harsh. Especially now that their mother was gone. And it wasn’t strictly true, although Josephine had acted like it sometimes. “You’re right. I take that back. But still. I wouldn’t expect her to kill herself over losing Hugh or anyone else. Not without some kind of warning.” An idea occurred to him. “Is her will current?”

“Her will? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about what we might inherit!”

“No,” he said, even though she must have given some thought to what would happen to the wealth their grandfather had accumulated. “I’m saying she wouldn’t check out of this world unless she’d prepared all of that. If her will hasn’t been updated, she wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

His sister calmed down. “That’s true. But letting it lapse in the first place wouldn’t be like her, either. She never let anything lapse. Anyway, I can’t tell you where she keeps it. I haven’t even looked for it. And it’s not like she ever took me into her confidence. She was so secretive about her finances, always acted as if what she had, and what she did with it, wasn’t any of our business.”

Because she didn’t think they were as capable of managing wealth as she was. “My point exactly. She would’ve cared about her father’s legacy, if nothing else. Left us a note about where to find the will. Something.”

“True. I agree that suicide is unlikely, but I wouldn’t say it’s impossible. She could’ve acted impulsively. I mean...who would she call if she was upset and needed someone to talk to? You? Me? No. She wouldn’t even call Roxanne. No matter how badly she hurt, she was never one to show her pain. She’d suck it up and pretend everything was fine. She never had anyone she could lean on—not since Dad.”

Intent on getting his bags from the car, Keith headed back through the house. “She never truly needed anyone, even him. Let’s be honest. Dad could barely put up with her, and you’d have to work pretty hard not to get along with Dad.” Of course, Keith had enough of Josephine in him that he’d managed to upset their father on occasion. “If we really looked in to how people felt about Mom, I bet even we’d be surprised by how many didn’t like her.”

“But everything’s been so quiet. For years. Why would this happen now when...”

The way her words fell away, as if an opposing thought had occurred to her, piqued his curiosity. “What is it?”

She hesitated, then said, “Never mind. It—it’s nothing.”

He stepped out onto the porch, into the nasty weather, and had to speak louder to make sure she could hear him above the storm. “Tell me what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything, really. It just hit me that the only person I’m aware of that Mom was having trouble with was Nancy. They haven’t been getting along lately. Nancy’s changed a lot. She’s been standing up for herself, which is good but...it’s also made them less compatible.”

“Are you talking about a specific incident?”

“I know of at least one. Last week, Mom threw a tantrum in the shop in front of several customers. Yelled at Nancy for not communicating well enough on some order for a big wedding, which embarrassed her—so much that she tried to quit.”

Nancy was the nicest person Keith had ever met. He still felt bad about the way his life had collided with hers. He’d been at his worst when he worked with her at the flower shop, had gotten her hopes up about a relationship and then walked out on her—after borrowing a large sum of money, which he’d spent on drugs. He’d tried to make up for what he’d done. Not only had he made several attempts to apologize and repay the money, he’d bought her a car—once he could afford it—to replace the hunk of junk she’d been driving when he left. He’d thought a gift like that would compensate for the past.