The Secrets She Kept

Maisey imagined the sweet face of her stepdaughter, who had the same dark hair and golden eyes as Rafe. “What would we do without her? I couldn’t love her any more if she was my own.”

“For all intents and purposes, she is yours,” he said and leaned forward to peck her lips.

It wasn’t as if her real mother had ever taken an interest. She’d essentially abandoned her child as soon as she found out the baby was handicapped.

“Back to your mom,” Rafe said. “I’m not convinced the police and the coroner are wrong, but if there’s any doubt and getting our own pathologist could relieve that doubt, let’s do it. Putting off the funeral for a few days isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“True, but getting our own pathologist will mean we have to pay for it.”

“Won’t be a problem for Keith. He’s Midas these days, right?” he said with a chuckle. “And we’re doing okay. I say we split it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

She supposed sharing the cost would be fair. Rafe was doing well with his construction and home repair business—had more work than ever before. They were still managing the vacation bungalows, which took care of their mortgage every month. And Maisey had gone back to writing children’s books, a passion and vocation that was beginning to pay more handsomely now that she was building a bigger readership than she’d had when she’d been married to her first husband and living in New York City. “But there’s more at stake than money.”

“Like...”

“What they might find. I could deal with it, no matter what. But I’m worried about Keith.”

Rafe fell back on the bed and propped himself up on his elbows. “Keith’s come a long way.”

“Exactly. I’d hate to see him fall apart. Especially now that Mom’s gone. I want what’s left of my family to finally be unified and healthy.”

“It’s been five years since he was in any trouble. I’m sure he’ll be careful not to head back down that road.”

“He’s had plenty of relapses in the past,” she pointed out. Far more than she cared to remember. He was the primary reason she’d come back to the island after her divorce. She’d felt he needed her support.

“But he’s never been clean this long.”

She wanted to believe he’d be able to hang on, but... “Triggers are funny things. He hasn’t been home in those five years, hasn’t even let me or Rocki talk about Mom. And now, because of what’s happened, here he is.”

“On Fairham? Really? Already? When did he get in?”

“Not sure. He didn’t tell me he was coming. But he was at Coldiron House just now, when I spoke to him. He’s staying there and insists on taking charge of everything.”

“What can we do to stop him—or make things easier?” Rafe asked.

She curled up against him, resting her head on his broad chest. “Nothing. But it’s not the drugs I’m worried about as much as...”

He kissed her forehead. “As?”

“All this talk about suicide. What if Mom really did kill herself? What if he decides the battle he fights every day isn’t worth it and he follows her lead? He’s tried before. I can’t lose my mother and my brother.”

Rafe sat up, pulling her with him so he could look into her face. “Keith’s changed. He can weather this.”

She didn’t have the chance to argue. Laney called out, “Mom! He did it! I heard it plop. Come wipe Bry’s bum!”

Bryson squealed and clapped, obviously as excited by his accomplishment as Laney was.

“I’ll take this one.” Rafe laughed as he got up, but Maisey hurried to circumvent him.

“No, I want to be there to praise him.”

“Maybe we should all stand in the doorway and clap,” Rafe teased.

She paused long enough to slip her arms around his waist and hold him close. “God, I love you.”

* * *

That night Keith tried to reach Pippa Strong, his mother’s housekeeper. He figured if anyone could shed some light on his mother’s frame of mind in the days and weeks leading up to her death, Pippa could. The two were fairly close—or as close as an employee could get to Josephine.

She didn’t answer, though. When he had to settle for leaving a message on her voice mail, he moved down his list and called Tyrone Coleman, the groundskeeper, instead.

Tyrone was just as trusted and loyal to the family, but he couldn’t fill in any of the blanks. He insisted that Josephine hadn’t said anything unusual to him before her death. He claimed she hadn’t been acting odd, either. And he hadn’t noticed any strangers or hostile individuals hanging around the property.

“No, sir,” he said to almost every question. “When I lef’ work on Friday, she was jus’ like she always was. You know’d your mother. If she didn’t like somethin’ she woulda said—and then she woulda changed it straightaway. That was a woman who knew her own mind fer sure.”

He spoke of Josephine with a mixture of awe and affection, the way one might refer to a willful child who was to be indulged.

“Yes, she did,” Keith said.

“You’re a lot like her—you know that,” Tyrone told him next.

“You aren’t the first to mention it,” he responded.

“That’s a good thing, Mr. Lazarow, sir. Your mamma was a strong woman. Once she got somethin’ in her head, she was immovable. Like a rock.”

As far as Keith was concerned, she’d been more like a sledgehammer. Her iron will could blast through any obstacle. But Tyrone seemed to be the same tolerant and respectful person he’d always been. He seemed truly bewildered by her death and upset that she was gone.

Keith told the groundskeeper he still had a job, that he could report to work whenever he was ready—a proclamation that was greeted with a tremendous amount of gratitude. Afterward, Keith thanked him and hung up. But several hours later, when it was well past the time he could call anyone, he was still going over that conversation and everything else he’d learned since receiving word of his mother’s death. How had Josephine died—and why? Had someone strangled her? Drugged her and then drowned her?

The mere possibility enraged him. It made no difference that they’d had so much difficulty getting along. The fact that they’d struggled actually made what had happened worse. Whoever killed her had robbed him of the ability to improve their relationship, to achieve any closure. But anger wasn’t all he felt. There was plenty of guilt, too. Would his grandfather have expected him to stay and protect her and the Coldiron legacy?

If he’d been able to cope with his own life, he would’ve stuck around—and who could say how that might’ve changed things?

Maybe she’d be alive right now...

Unable to sleep, he pulled his computer out of his bag, opened it and leaned against the headboard while he researched strangulation and asphyxiation and what doctors looked for in determining whether someone had died in that way. From what he read, many of the signs didn’t show up within the first twenty-four hours, which was interesting and made him wonder if his mother had been examined the day after she was found. He also learned that “petechial hemorrhaging,” in which the blood vessels burst behind the eyes, was one red flag. A broken hyoid bone was another.

At nearly three, he set his computer aside and went to his mother’s suite. After walking through the empty bedroom and bathroom, he wandered into the retreat set off to one side, which had a balcony with a fabulous view of the beach and ocean below. He stared out at the storm-tossed waves for several minutes. The wind and the rain had gotten stronger. Then he sat down and poked through his mother’s writing desk more thoroughly than when he’d been ransacking the place for her phone.

He found nothing that clarified what might have happened, but he did come across a stack of letters tucked inside a big travel book in a deep file drawer. They were addressed to him at his company’s address in LA.

Frowning at the discovery, he sat on the velvet-covered bench at the foot of Josephine’s bed to see what they were. Written on perfumed stationery—his mother couldn’t do anything ordinary—they were sealed, as if she’d planned on mailing them. But he’d never received any communication from her. She’d had too much pride to contact him, since he was the one who’d cut her off.

He counted them. Ten in all. Tapping them against his knee, he studied the flowing script. Even her handwriting exhibited an elegance few people could emulate.