Page 3 of Buried Secrets

Matt’s eyes adjusted to the light, and that’s when he saw her—a woman standing between two tall shelving units, a folder open in her hands. She looked up at their entrance, and Matt found himself momentarily caught off guard.

Her eyes were the first thing he noticed. They were a clear, vibrant green that seemed almost too bright against her olive skin and dark hair, which fell in waves past her shoulders. She wore simple clothes, dark jeans, and a deep burgundy sweater. There was something about the way she held herself. It suggested a background far removed from their small island. Mrs. Holloway was wrong. She wasn’t pretty, she was drop dead gorgeous.

A furrow appeared between her brows as she registered his uniform, her posture stiffening almost imperceptibly.

“Oh, Ms. Mathews!” Mrs. Holloway called out. “Still with us, I see. Finding everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” the woman replied, her British accent confirming Mrs. Holloway’s assessment. Her voice was warm but cautious, and she closed the folder she’d been examining with deliberate care. “These records are remarkably well-preserved.”

Mrs. Holloway beamed with pride. “We take our history seriously on Widow’s Point.” She gestured toward Matt. “Ms. Mathews, this is Sheriff Mattison Winters. He’s also researching the mansion property today. Quite the popular subject all of a sudden.”

The stranger’s gaze swept over Matt, assessing and wary. The furrow between her brows deepened. “Is it? I would have thought an island this size would have more pressing concerns for its sheriff than historical research.”

There was an edge to her words that caught Matt’s attention.

Defensive, almost.

“History has a way of revealing present day secrets, Ms. Mathews,” he replied evenly. It was something he’d heard his father say time and time again.

Intrigue flickered across her features before she composed herself, returning to her frown. “Well, I wouldn’t want to interfere with official business.”

She began gathering her notes, slipping them into a leather messenger bag that looked both expensive and well-used.

“No need to leave on my account,” Matt said, wondering what exactly this stranger had found so interesting in the mansion’s history. “The records are public.”

Mrs. Holloway nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, and since you’re both looking at the same property, perhaps you could help each other. Sheriff Winters is interested in burial records for the Costigan estate.”

Kaitlin’s hands stilled on her bag. “Burial records?”

The way she said it, with an undercurrent of both fear and interest, triggered Matt’s investigative instincts.

“Among other things,” he said vaguely.

“The land deeds and property surveys would be in Section C,” Mrs. Holloway said, pointing to shelves along the back wall. “Original town maps are in those bound volumes on the bottom shelf. And anything specific to the Costigan property would be filed under family names in the cabinet by the window. Of course, they’ve only owned it for thirty or so years,” she paused, looking between them. “Will you two be all right on your own? My arthritis is acting up something fierce today and the dampness down here has my bones singing.”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt assured her. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Holloway.”

“Now, remember, nothing leaves this room,” the clerk admonished. “There’s a copy machine there in the corner if you need it. Ancient thing, but it works most days. Just sign the log if you make copies. We’ll settle up when you’re done. Ten cents a copy.” She gave them a final appraising look over her half-moon glasses before departing, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.

The sudden quiet was broken only by the humming fluorescents and the distant sound of the ferry horn announcing its departure back to the mainland. Matt and Kaitlin stood regarding each other across a narrow table covered with faded manila folders.

“So,” Matt said finally, “what’s your interest in the mansion, Ms. Mathews?”

She turned away from him, picking up another file. “I’m researching British immigration to New England coastal communities,” she replied smoothly. “Widow’s Point Island was founded by British immigrants in the early eighteenth century. It’s relevant to my work.”

It sounded rehearsed, Matt thought. Too neat, too ready.

“Why Widow’s Point?” he asked, moving toward the cabinets Mrs. Holloway had indicated. “There must be dozens of similar communities that are easier to get to.”

“My client was interested in this particular island. He’s a writer of historical novels. The isolated setting is particularly interesting,” she answered, not missing a beat. “Island communities often have preserved cultural patterns that mainland settlements lose, and they sometimes even develop their own.”

“Oh? Who’s your client? I may know of him. I love reading history books,” Matt asked, picking up a dusty bound map from the 1800s. He didn’t add that his love of reading was forced on him by his father, only turning from hatred to love in his later twenties.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” She tilted her head slightly. “And you, Sheriff? What has the local law enforcement so interested in old property records?”

Matt chose his words carefully. “Just following up on some questions about the property’s past uses.” He pulled open a drawer marked C-D and began scanning through the labels.

“Questions prompted by…?” she pressed.