The Secrets She Kept. Brenda Novak

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.”

      Keith caught a hint of sarcasm in her response—as if he was being too high-handed—but he ignored it. He wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way of the answers he sought. Including her. “I’d also be grateful if you’d call over to the morgue and make arrangements for us to see her today.”

      Underwood’s mouth tightened, suggesting this put her off even more. “The morgue isn’t designed for public viewings. You’ll be able to see her after they release her body. Once she’s at a funeral home, you can go ahead and have a viewing or bury her or whatever you’d like.”

      “That’ll be after the autopsy, which will take another day or two. Maybe more. Chances are she’ll no longer resemble the woman I remember, and you know it.”

      “That’s not necessarily true. People have open caskets after autopsies all the time—”

      “I haven’t seen her in five years, Chief Underwood. Could you show me a little compassion and make it possible to spend ten minutes with my dead mother today?”

      “I’d like to see her, too,” Maisey piped up. “I don’t think any of this will feel real until I do.”

      Chief Underwood closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if she was digging deep for patience. Keith could tell she thought she was already bending over backward by agreeing to give him a copy of the file. Ultimately, however, she gave in. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said with a sigh. “I shouldn’t. Just keep in mind that they’re busy over there and probably won’t welcome you. This will force someone to take time out of his or her schedule, so I’d appreciate it if you’d be as brief as possible.”

      “You have my word,” Keith said and waited while she made the call.

      “You can head there now if you like,” Underwood told him when she hung up and wrote down the address. “The supervising technician, a man by the name of Dean Gillespie, will meet you when you arrive and take you back.”

      “Thank you.” Keith shook her hand before leading Maisey out into the cool, damp weather of another rainy day.

      “The morgue?” Maisey said as they climbed into his rental car. The keys of his mother’s Mercedes were where she’d always kept them, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to drive her car quite yet. “We’re going to the morgue?”

      “Would you rather not?” he asked.

      She seemed a little shell-shocked. “I’d like to see Mom, as I said. I’m just not sure what else you’re hoping to accomplish.”

      “I want to see the condition of her body.”

      “You’re afraid there might be injuries they’re not telling us about?”

      “I’d rather not take someone else’s word for it. Doesn’t hurt to stay involved, right?” He started the car but didn’t shift into Drive. “So...are you in? Or should I drop you off at home?”

      Although she frowned, she didn’t take long to decide. “I’m in. But then what?”

      “Then we choose a pathologist we feel we can trust from the list they gave you. Whoever it is will probably need to have her transferred to the hospital where he or she works.”

      “And after that?”

      “I’d like to talk to Hugh.”

      She buckled her seat belt. “Why? So you can ask him if Mom knew he was married? You’ll have no way of knowing whether he’s telling the truth.”

      “I can ask him that and other things. Compare what he tells me with what he told the police. Look for inconsistencies. I can also research his background, find out what’s going on in his life and what he might’ve been after by dating Mom in the first place. That might be more useful.”

      Maisey rolled her eyes. “Why? Isn’t it obvious? Men adored Mom. I’ve never seen a woman attract so much attention—except maybe Marilyn Monroe.”

      That the starlet had also died naked with an empty bottle of pills nearby made the comparison a bit chilling. Was that where their mother’s killer had gotten the idea? “So why wasn’t he willing to leave his wife for her?”

      “Maybe he loves his wife. Or he wasn’t willing to break up his family. Chief Underwood mentioned two sons and a youngish daughter.”

      “His wife has to be easier to live with than Mom would’ve been.”

      “He wouldn’t have realized that yet. No one can resist Mom when she’s pouring on the charm.”

      “Still, I can’t buy that she’d ever take her own life.”

      “Even after what we just heard?”

      “Did it change your mind?” he asked.

      She looked dejected as she stared at the wet, shiny pavement ahead of them. “Honestly?”

      “Of course.”

      “No,” she said.

      “There you go.”

      He’d finally shifted and pulled away from the curb when he saw a woman carrying a fluffy Chow Chow—a dog too big for that sort of thing—down the sidewalk ahead of them. “That’s Nancy, isn’t it? And her dog, Simba?”

      Maisey took so long to answer he thought she was going to ignore the question.

      “Isn’t it?” he prompted, throwing her a sharp glance.

      She squinted through the windshield as if she wasn’t quite sure. “Maybe,” she said.

      He knew it was Nancy. He’d recognize her anywhere.

      Pulling alongside her, he lowered the passenger window. “Hey, climb in,” he called out. “We’ll give you a ride.”