Page 9
The questions haunted her.
She took a deep breath and exited the car, gravel crunching beneath her boots. The air smelled of wet earth, with underlying notes of salt from the ocean. Its cobalt blue was visible between the trees.
The mansion’s front entrance, with impressive double doors of carved oak beneath a stone archway, stood slightly ajar. Voices echoed from somewhere inside, the indistinct cadence of an argument. Kaitlin hesitated only briefly before approaching. She hadn’t called ahead or made any appointment with the owner, but the open door seemed invitation enough.
The entrance hall beyond was cavernous, with a sweeping staircase ascending to upper floors and corridors branching in several directions. Sunlight streamed through stained glass transoms, casting pools of colored light across a floor of worn marble tiles. The place smelled of dust and old wood.
Kaitlin stood motionless, absorbing the space. Had her mother walked these floors? Climbed those stairs? The thought created a strange vertigo, as if time itself had become unstable beneath her feet.
The voices grew louder, coming from somewhere to her left. Kaitlin followed the sound down a wide corridor lined with emptied picture hooks and faded rectangles on the wallpaper where paintings had once hung. She moved slowly, taking in details: crown molding carved with intricate patterns, door frames tall enough to accommodate the fashion for high hats from another century, brass fixtures tarnished to a dull brown.
The corridor opened into what must have once been a grand parlor or sitting room. Now it stood partially dismantled, with sections of wall exposed where paneling had been removed and furniture pushed to the center under drop cloths. Three people stood in the midst of this disruption, their body language broadcasting tension even before Kaitlin could make out their words.
“—completely unacceptable to simply discard historical materials of this significance,” a man in a tweed suit jacket was saying, his voice tight with contained outrage. “These archives could be irreplaceable.”
“I’m not suggesting discarding them,” replied a woman, whom Kaitlin presumed to be Amy York from her intelligence obtained from the town clerk.
She was younger than Kaitlin had expected, perhaps in her early thirties, with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and dust smudging her otherwise stylish outfit. Bracelets jingled with her movements. “I’m saying I don’t have the resources or expertise to properly preserve them. My focus is on structural renovation—the foundation and the roof to be exact. I’m sure the historical society supports the building not crumbling or having a leaky roof?”
“Of course, but you should have included a plan for handling historical artifacts and documents,” Tweed Suit Jacket interjected. “The Widow’s Point Historical Society was quite clear about the conditions of your permit.”
A third figure, a burly man in a flannel shirt and work pants liberally coated in plaster dust, shifted uncomfortably. “Look, we didn’t expect to find a whole room full of stuff,” he said. “We were just doing the foundation survey you asked for, Ms. York, and found the door behind some old shelving.”
“A door you should have reported before opening,” Tweed Suit Jacket snapped. “Now we have fifty years of records exposed to humidity and potential damage.”
“Mr. Harrington, please,” Amy said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t helping. I understand the Society’s concerns, but you have to understand my position. I have contractors on tight schedules, limited funding, and now human remains in the garden complicating everything. I simply don’t have the capacity to deal with a room full of moldering paperwork.”
Kaitlin’s attention sharpened at the mention of records. Fifty years of documentation from the period when the mansion operated as a home for unwed mothers, potentially including information about her own birth and her mother’s identity.
“I might be able to help,” she heard herself say. She stepped forward into the room.
The three of them looked at her, each with a different level of surprise registering across their faces.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said, the first to recover. “The mansion isn’t open to visitors yet.”
“I’m Kaitlin Mathews,” she introduced herself with a professional smile. “I’m a researcher specializing in historical documentation. I couldn’t help overhearing your dilemma, and I believe I might offer a solution.”
Mr. Harrington from the historical society eyed her suspiciously. “Are you with a university program?”
“British Historical Society,” Kaitlin replied smoothly. “I’m actually on the island researching this very property. These records would be invaluable to my work, and I have extensive experience in document preservation and cataloging.”
The contractor looked relieved at this potential resolution, obviously eager to continue his own work, while Amy seemed hesitant but interested. Mr. Harrington remained skeptical.
“There are protocols for handling sensitive materials,” he began.
“Do you have a better solution?” Amy countered.
“I’d work under whatever guidelines you establish,” Kaitlin assured him. “My interest is in researching the materials, but I can ensure the materials are properly managed while I conduct my review.”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind them, and Kaitlin suppressed a groan as she turned to see Sheriff Winters entering the room. He wore his uniform, the tan fabric crisp and snug across his ample chest. His face shifted from professional neutrality to something harder, more suspicious as he recognized her.
“Ms. Mathews,” he said, his voice several degrees colder than those around her. “This is becoming a pattern.”
“What is?” She was unable to keep the edge from her voice.
“You showing up wherever my investigation leads.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Quite the coincidence.”
“Or perhaps it’s you following me,” she countered, irritation flaring. “Every time I turn around on this island, you seem to materialize.”
