by Brenda Novak
“You did your part when you found Rocki. I’ll take care of this.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help. So will Rafe. But...are you sure it won’t...you know, be too unsettling for you? There’re a lot of memories in that house...”
They were back to her concern for him. He wished she’d give it a rest. But she had good reason to be worried, good reason to grill him.
“The only thing I’m sure about is that Mom’s death isn’t going down as a suicide,” he said. Maybe he’d never be classified as a model son, but he would do that much for his mother.
4
“ARE YOU OKAY?”
Maisey looked up to find her husband standing in the doorway of their bedroom. “I’m fine.”
He came into the room. “You seemed so worried there for a second.”
“I just hung up with Keith.”
“And? How’s he taking the news about your mother?”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “He’s insisting we get our own pathologist to perform the autopsy.”
He rested his hands on his lean hips. “Why?”
“He says that Mom would never kill herself, and he doesn’t want someone who might be influenced by what the coroner and the police have said about her death.”
His dark eyebrows drew together as he sat down next to her on the bed. “Do you agree?”
“Don’t you?” she asked.
He studied her for several seconds. “Your mother was a difficult person. Maybe something happened that was just...too much for her.”
“I’ve never known her to come up against a challenge she couldn’t handle,” she said wryly.
“Doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. She was a proud and private person. We don’t have any idea what was going on in her life—beyond the few details she was willing to divulge.”
Laney’s voice interrupted from the living room, where she was playing with Bryson, their two-year-old son. “Daddy, I think Bry needs to go potty!”
“What makes you say that?” Rafe called back to his daughter.
“He keeps saying, ‘Poop.’”
“That would be a good indication,” Maisey said with a chuckle.
Rafe got up. “I’m coming!”
“Why can’t I help him?” Laney asked. “He’ll go for me.”
Eleven-year-old Laney was blind and had been since birth, but she navigated their house well. And she loved nothing as much as her little brother. “Sure,” Maisey called. “But only give him two M&M’s as a reward.” Maisey suspected Laney was more generous with the treats they kept on hand for potty training purposes than they were.
“Can I have some, too?” she asked.
“Of course. Just let us know if you need help, okay?”
“I’ll let you wipe him,” she told them, and Maisey grinned as Rafe sat down again.
“That’s probably best,” he conceded. “Otherwise, that trip to the bathroom might not end the way we’d like it to.”
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 you
r 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.
So what did she have to tell him? Dare he find out? There had to be some reason she’d chosen not to mail them. And he was already feeling troubled and unsettled. Why give her a voice? Would he be able to tolerate what she said?
In case he couldn’t, he got up and shoved them back into the book, which he returned to the drawer. He’d be smarter to protect his sobriety, he thought. But after several minutes of pacing, he retrieved them, opened the top one and skimmed the contents.
It was just a regular letter, like something he might expect if he’d been stationed overseas in the army or was away at school. The others followed the same pattern. Some were Christmas cards. Some were birthday cards. She talked about the flower shop and Coldiron House and the vacation rentals. She talked about seeing Roxanne and any news about Roxanne’s “little family.” She talked about Maisey giving birth to Bryson, noted his size and weight and complained that he wasn’t named after anyone in their family. She also talked about Pippa taking vacation or getting sick and who she might get to fill in.
She didn’t offer him any apologies, however. She didn’t even acknowledge the fact that they were estranged. She just pretended nothing had happened between them and they were still speaking.
After reading the last one, he stacked the envelopes the way he’d found them.
Maybe he shouldn’t have read them, after all. They reminded him of how charming his mother could be when she was on her best behavior, made him miss her. They also made him wonder if maybe he was the one to blame for their problems. He’d already spent a lifetime wondering. Is it me or her? These letters dredged up all of that confusion and uncertainty. But, refusing to succumb to those thoughts, he forced himself to look at the letters more objectively. What did they mean? Was the fact that she’d taken the time to write an apology in itself? Was it her way of expressing her love?
The closings never varied—Love, Mom. That was the only thing that might suggest she cared about him, two words that could easily be interpreted as a standard closing. Was there so much wrong between them that she wouldn’t risk tackling the issues? Was she hoping to simply go on, to forget the past as if it hadn’t existed?
Since she was never one to apologize, that was her favorite approach to making up. He would’ve been content to let bygones be bygones, too, if he could. He’d tried to come to terms with his mother for thirty-seven years before giving up and forging ahead with a life that didn’t include her.
His phone buzzed. He’d received a text from Dahlia.
Should I come over again tonight?
He hadn’t told her about his mother, hadn’t even mentioned that he was going out of town.
No. I’m not in LA.
Where are you?
On the East Coast.
For what?
Business, he typed because he wasn’t willing to divulge the personal nature of his trip.
She sent him a frowny face, to which he didn’t respond. Then she wrote, When will you be home? I’m missing you.
He wasn’t missing her at all. He barely knew her and was fairly certain he didn’t want to see her again. The few times they’d actually had a conversation, he’d been bored stiff.
For some reason, he thought of Nancy—of how real and honest and caring she’d been...
His phone buzzed again. Can’t wait to see you.
I’ll let you know when I get back, he wrote.
* * *
The next morning Nancy Dellinger didn’t have to open the flower shop. It was her day off and yet she was still preoccupied with the death of her boss, who’d also been Fairham Island’s central figure. She’d been dwelling on Josephine a lot, but not the way she should’ve been—with shock and grief. Mostly she was relieved to think her boss would no longer be part of her life. She hated feeling like that, hated being unkind. Besides, Josephine Lazarow’s death had its drawbacks. Depending on who inherited the business and what that person chose to do with it, she could be out of a job. If it was Maisey, she’d keep Love’s in Bloom. Maisey loved the flower shop as much as Nancy did. But Keith? He’d probably sell it and go back to LA. She’d heard he’d become a big shot out there.
Regardless, Nancy was happier without Josephine.
That was how anxious her employer had made her. The minute Keith’s mother would glide into the shop, enveloped in a cloud of expensive perfume, Nancy’s blood pressure would skyrocket and she’d begin to perspire—even in winter. Because there would be no peace until Josephine left. Josephine would criticize and belittle and nitpick until Nancy was almost in tears.
Attention to detail—that’s how a shop stands out, she’d say as if Nancy had never heard that before. Josephine had the power to make Nancy feel inept with a single, imperious glance—never mind that she’d been managing the business efficiently for seven years. Josephine had never even threatened to get rid of her; that, right there, proved she was doing a good job. The “Queen of Fairham” had fired every manager who’d come before her—in a matter of months. And yet Nancy had never received any thanks or gratitude, no kindness or camaraderie. She’d gotten a Christmas bonus each year, but that had more to do with how Josephine wanted to be perceived than recognition for a job well done. Josephine could see only what hadn’t been accomplished or what could’ve been handled better.
In short, her boss was—had been—the most difficult individual Nancy had ever met, the worst kind of perfectionist. And yet, Nancy couldn’t help admiring her. Josephine was everything Nancy would never be—regal, commanding, perfectly put together and never an ounce overweight. Josephine was nearly twice Nancy’s age and yet Nancy couldn’t compete with her grace or her beauty.
But then...no one could compete with Josephine. Maisey, her own daughter, gorgeous in her own right, felt as inept and unattractive around her mother as Nancy did. Nancy had become close enough to Maisey to understand that.
Climbing out of bed to confront her wall-length mirror, Nancy sucked in her stomach and turned to the side. She gave herself this critical once-over every day, even though her reflection didn’t change much. Three years ago, she’d lost thirty pounds and kept them off. So there’d been some improvement since she’d last seen Keith. She’d felt a lot better about herself since then. But she still hadn’t lost the final twenty pounds.
She wasn’t built to be a size 4, she concluded—and that was her one great regret. With thick, dark hair, which fell to her shoulders in a healthy sheen, wide, hazel eyes and smooth, clear skin, she had a pretty face. But she wanted to have more than a pretty face. She wanted to have a body to match. To bring Keith Lazarow to his knees, make him sorry he’d so casually walked away from her.
