The Secrets She Kept. Brenda Novak
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length of time. “Would you mind removing the sheet and taking a look now?” he asked. He didn’t feel he could do that. It would be the ultimate invasion of his mother’s privacy at a time when she couldn’t defend it. But he felt someone should check her corpse before the autopsy was performed. Having more than one person provide an opinion could prove useful later on—although he had no idea how or why. He was just trying to document everything he could before it was too late, trying to use simple logic.
“Um, sure,” Dean said. “But...can I ask why?”
“I’d like to know what you see.”
The coroner’s technician had been quite solicitous. At this, he hesitated, as if it was pretty far outside his expectations. But then he acquiesced. “Of course. If it’ll help.”
“You look, too,” Keith told Maisey and turned away while Dean peeled back the covering.
“Anything?” Keith asked when they indicated that it was safe to turn back.
“She’s had breast augmentation surgery,” Maisey said drily. “After pretending her figure was God-given, ever since I can remember, that should surprise me, but it doesn’t.”
That didn’t surprise Keith, either. But he wasn’t investigating her vanity. “Anything else? Anything suspicious?”
“Nothing,” Dean said.
Steeling himself for whatever he might find, he lifted his mother’s eyelids. “Do her eyes seem bloodshot to you?” he asked Dean.
Dean was startled by the question. “Um...I guess. Yeah, they’re bloodshot. But...I wouldn’t say that necessarily means anything.”
“According to what I’ve read, bloodshot eyes can indicate strangulation,” Keith said.
Dean smoothed the sheet over their mother. “A pathologist would be the one to answer that question. I’d suggest not jumping to any conclusions.”
“Because...”
“Because those conclusions could have far-reaching implications,” he said. “And they may not be correct.”
“Our mother didn’t kill herself.” Turning to Maisey, he said, “We need to make sure they test the level of carbon dioxide in her blood, too.”
Maisey stared at him. “What will that tell us?”
“It’s another sign of suffocation.”
His sister blanched. “And you know this how?”
“Everything’s on the internet.”
She looked torn. “Keith, I don’t want to be rude, but...a little internet research doesn’t make your opinion any more relevant than the coroner’s.”
“It might be relevant to whatever pathologist we choose,” he said. “And that’s who’ll be doing the autopsy.”
She reached out to touch their mother’s hand—then quickly withdrew. “It’s funny. This is the first time I’ve ever felt as if I’m in control while being in the same room with her.”
Keith understood what his sister meant. But before he could acknowledge her comment, she said, “Are you sure we aren’t in denial, unwilling to see our capable mother succumb to human emotions like depression? Desperation? Maybe she wasn’t impervious to all the things that get to the rest of us. You have to admit that financial stuff we learned from Chief Underwood would have to make an impact on her.”
Keith tried to entertain that thought but felt more resolve instead of less. “The mother I knew wouldn’t give up.”
“When you say stuff like that, I agree,” Maisey said. “But I keep coming back to one thing. Who could’ve killed her? Who would’ve wanted to?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“Whoa! You think she was murdered?” Dean broke in.
“You don’t?” Keith replied.
“No. I understand that what you’re going through is painful, but the coroner knows what he’s doing. You can trust whatever he tells you.”
The coroner was an elected official. He had a background in law enforcement; he wasn’t even a doctor. “Are you one hundred percent sure of that?” Keith asked.
Dean backed away from the challenge. “He’s the coroner,” he mumbled.
Keith could barely refrain from rolling his eyes. “Maybe so, but he’s as human as you or I.”
They thanked Gillespie. Then they went out and sat in the car while they pored over the list of pathologists Chief Underwood had given them. Keith used the internet on his phone to see what he could find out about each one—but they all seemed reputable. So they started going down the list to see who could do it relatively soon.
After three calls and a bit of negotiating—which included the offer of a bonus to get a Dr. Pendergast to rearrange his schedule—they had it booked for early Sunday morning. Maisey contacted the funeral home to arrange for transportation, since the coroner didn’t provide that, while Keith started to drive them back to Fairham. After Maisey was done, they called Rocki on his Bluetooth so they could update her.
“It’s all set,” Maisey told her. “The funeral home will pick up Mom’s body from the coroner and take it to the hospital here in Charleston first thing Sunday morning.”
“That’s soon,” Rocki said. “You must be happy about that, Keith.”
“I am,” he said.
“How much are they going to charge us?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about the cost,” Keith replied. “I got it.”
“Are you sure?” Rocki asked. “Doesn’t seem fair.”
“We should all split it,” Maisey suggested, but he shook his head.
“No, this will be on me.”
Maisey loosened her seat belt as if she was having trouble getting comfortable. “There’s just one thing.”
“What?” He was finally feeling encouraged that they were making progress. So why did she sound so concerned and reluctant?
“You’re a very passionate person,” she responded. “Once you grab hold of something, you don’t let go.”
She was right about that. Even when he’d been trying to destroy himself, he’d done a damn fine job of it. “So?” He stopped at a traffic light before taking the turn that would bring them to the ferry and then the island.
“Rocki, do you know where she’s going with this?”
“I’m pretty sure I can guess,” she said.
“As your sisters, we agree with what you’re doing,” Maisey explained. “But we’re also a little worried that Mom’s death will consume you, take over your life.”
Even though Rocki couldn’t see him, he waved their concerns away. “I’m going to catch the bastard who killed her, no matter what.”
“We don’t even know she was killed,” Rocki told him.
“I do,” he said.
NANCY SIGHED AS she clicked through the messages she’d received from potential “matches” via the online dating site where she’d put up her profile a couple of months ago. This was where she’d met Tom. Although their relationship hadn’t completely ended, it wasn’t very promising. There had to be someone else out there for her. But she felt no enthusiasm for flirting, didn’t even care to return the messages.
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