The Secrets She Kept

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 (#u8ed10f00-acea-5fdf-aa03-d128a18c557a)

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.