The Secrets She Kept

“What facts?” Keith asked. “The autopsy hasn’t even been done yet.”

“At this point, the coroner and I believe the autopsy is merely a formality.”

“Which is what makes me uncomfortable,” Keith said.

“That’s why we’re permitting you to select a qualified pathologist from a list of doctors we recognize as having the proper credentials and experience—to compensate for any prejudice you feel we might have. Didn’t Maisey tell you? We spoke about it this morning.”

“Maisey told me, and I appreciate that you’re working with us.” He had enough money, and his name carried enough clout, that he could create a fuss if she didn’t. Whether that had been a factor or not, he hated to guess. She’d agreed; that was what mattered.

“I’m happy to make the concession,” she said.

“That’s good. Thank you. But we need more,” he responded. “We need an aggressive investigation.”

Underwood’s chair creaked when she shifted in it, even though she didn’t weigh all that much. “O-kay.” She stretched out the word as if she was surprised he was still pushing. “Let’s look at other possibilities, shall we? Who would’ve wanted your mother dead?”

Now she was playing along just to show them how ridiculous they were being. Keith resented the fact that she was patronizing him, but at least she was listening.

“Our mother wouldn’t end it all without providing for Pippa and Tyrone,” Maisey said. “She had other help—people who assisted whenever she had a party or drove her if she preferred not to drive—but they were only on call and weren’t nearly as close to her. She wouldn’t have left Pippa and Tyrone high and dry, especially since they’re getting on in age.”

“Even if she’d lived, she wouldn’t have been able to continue paying them,” Underwood said.

“You can’t say that for sure,” Maisey argued. “She was dating a wealthy man from Australia. Maybe they would’ve married, and that would’ve solved everything.”

“You’re talking about Hugh Pointer.”

It wasn’t a question, more of a confirmation. “Yes.”

“I thought so.” Underwood clasped her hands in front of her. “He’s already married, Maisey.”

This news hit Keith like a solid right hook. “What?”

“You heard correctly. I called to get a statement from him before he could hear the news from someone else.”

“So...what was he doing with our mother?” Keith asked.

She moved some papers onto a pile to her left. “This wouldn’t be the first time someone’s cheated.”

“I’d be willing to bet it was the first time someone cheated on our mother,” Maisey said. “Did she know he was married?”

Keith answered before Chief Underwood could. “No way. Mom would never tolerate second place.”

“I tend to agree,” Underwood said. “She didn’t strike me as someone who’d accept anything less than total devotion. Although I couldn’t say we were friends, I met her on several occasions—at the playhouse one night, at the opening of the new art gallery a block over, at the event we held to raise money to equip our volunteer firefighters. She was...formidable, to say the least. So I’m guessing she didn’t know but found out, and that may have precipitated her death. Could be she suspected something was up, hired a private detective to follow Hugh around and...”

Underwood didn’t finish, but she didn’t need to. If Josephine had suspected, she could’ve done exactly that. Their mother wouldn’t hesitate to protect her interests. From time to time, Keith had even suspected she had people watching him.

No longer sure what to say, he sank back into his seat. “What a bastard.”

“Well, if she was hoping to marry him for his money...” Underwood raised her hands as if she didn’t care to spell out that thought, either, and she had a point.

Keith had expected the fact that Josephine had packed her bags and had a fabulous vacation lined up to serve as proof that she’d planned to stick around long enough to enjoy it. But if she’d been battling to save her fortune, her land and her house, and she’d just learned that her only hope of solving these problems wasn’t going to pan out...

God, she could’ve called him, Keith thought. He was shocked at how good he was at making money, once he really started to apply himself.

But, as Chief Underwood had mentioned, Josephine had too much pride...

“Wait,” he said. “If she was planning to go visit him at his home...what about his wife? How would he keep them from meeting up?”

“Lana Pointer was touring Europe with their daughter, who’s eighteen. They have two sons, who’re closer to your age, married and on their own, and then this girl, who came as a late surprise when his wife was in her forties.”

Les Scott, a uniformed police officer and someone Keith had gone to school with before ninth grade—at which point Josephine had shipped him off to boarding school—stuck his head in the room. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m going to lunch and wondered if you’d like me to bring you a sandwich,” he said to his chief.

“That’d be great. I’ll have the meatball sub, extra sauce,” she told him and the door closed. “So...does that answer your questions?” she asked when they were alone again.

No. In Keith’s opinion, what she’d told them only created more questions, and he could tell Maisey felt as bewildered as he did. “Our mother would never commit suicide,” he replied. “Despite everything you’ve said.”

“It’s a long time since you were home.” Underwood spoke as if he wouldn’t really know. She seemed to think she had it all figured out. But nothing about Josephine was simple. It never had been.

“Her phone’s missing,” he said. “So’s her computer. I take it you have them?”

“Yes. I’ve got her phone right here.” She delved into a drawer and held up his mother’s Samsung Galaxy. “Her computer’s with an evidence technician in Charleston.”

“Because...”

“I’m doing my homework.”

“When can I get them back?”

“When I’m done. I’m still tying up loose ends. If I can prove she had a private detective looking for information on her boyfriend, for instance, we’ll be able to fit in that piece of the puzzle.”

The nervous energy passing through Keith made him bounce his knee. Thanks to his exercise regimen, he couldn’t remember being this tense in quite some time. “You’re trying to prove suicide.”

“If I prove suicide, I’ll disprove murder.”

“You’ll never prove suicide because she didn’t kill herself.” He indicated the folder. “Any chance I can get a copy of what you’ve got in there?”

Underwood returned the file to its drawer. “Not right now. Maybe later.”

“Why wait?” he asked. “I only want the truth.”

She met his gaze. “Keith, I’m doing all you can reasonably expect of me. I don’t need you getting in the way or making my life difficult.”

Apparently, his reputation had preceded him. He lifted his hands. “All I asked for is a copy of the file, Chief. That can’t be too hard to provide.”

With a long-suffering shake of her head, she got out the file again—but set it beyond his reach. “Fine,” she conceded. “I’ll have Les scan the contents and email them to you. Fair enough?”

Keith wrote his email address on a notepad he found on the desk and handed it to her. “This is where it should go.”

“He’ll jump right on it.”