Page 2 of Buried Secrets

“I think it would be a great idea to make sure, but I doubt it will lead to anything,” Matt assured her, though he wasn’t entirely convinced himself. “Once the medical examiner determines age and circumstances, we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“That would be a disaster,” Amy sighed, shaking her head. “But I guess it’s better to find out now, rather than later. Would this stop renovations?”

“Honestly? Not sure how to answer that yet. This is new to me as well. We’ll have to see how this plays out. I mean, if there’s foul play involved, I would expect some impact.” The rustling of dry leaves accompanied his movements as he completed the perimeter.

Beyond the stone wall, the dense woods that covered much of the island’s interior stood dark and watchful, branches swaying in the strengthening wind. The first real autumn storm was coming; he could feel it in the air.

“What do we tell Noah?” Kelsey asked Mac quietly, though Matt caught the question.

“The truth, but simplified,” Mac replied. The couple exchanged a tender look as if they’d come to appreciate a simplified truth. “That sometimes people were buried outside of cemeteries in the old days, and that Sheriff Winters is going to make sure everything was handled properly.”

Matt felt a surge of respect for Mac’s approach. Straightforward but not alarming—the boy had been through enough trauma recently with the Jennifer Prescott incident. Attempted kidnapping and attempted murder are things not easily forgotten.

“I’ll need statements from all of you,” Matt said, pulling out his notebook. “And I’d like to speak with Noah as well, though I’ll keep it brief and age-appropriate.”

As he took their preliminary statements, Matt found his mind already racing ahead. The island’s history was well-documented in some ways. It started as a fishing community that had grown into a summer colony for the wealthy. Conservation efforts had preserved much of its natural beauty—but there were gaps. The mansion itself had many people passing in and out even before a foundation was formed to run it.

The sound of tires on gravel announced the arrival of Deputy Collins, responding to Matt’s earlier call. Matt excused himself to brief his deputy on securing the scene. Matt would finish taking statements while he set the deputy up to his tasks.

The arriving team would need them to set up floodlights and a tent to cover the scene from the elements. The autumn days were short, and darkness would fall soon.

Matt found himself staring back at the mansion. He’d grown up in the shadow of the old house, like everyone else on the island, accepting it as part of the landscape. But now, with a skeletal hand reaching up from its soil, Matt wondered what else was buried here. What else he had never questioned about his island home.

The wind picked up again, sending a shower of leaves tumbling across the crime scene as he tightened his jacket against the chill.

This was just the beginning.

He could feel it in his bones.

The town clerk’s office smelled of dust, paper, and the faint hint of lavender that clung to Mrs. Holloway’s cardigans. Likely the result of sachets stored in her drawers, as his own grandmother had done. Matt pressed his palms against the worn wooden counter as the elderly clerk peered at him over half-moon glasses that seemed to have been perched on her nose since before he was born.

“A cemetery? On the Costigan estate?” Mrs. Holloway’s voice carried the particular inflection of island natives: a blend of Down East Maine and something older, almost brogue-like, a carryover from their immigrant roots. “Well now, that’s quite the request, Sheriff.”

Matt resisted the urge to sigh. He’d known to expect this treatment. Eleanor Holloway had been the town clerk for well over forty years, and she treated the town’s records like personal possessions, doling out information only after extracting what she considered a fair exchange of gossip.

“It’s related to an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Holloway,” Matt said, keeping his tone professional. “I need to see any documentation about burials, cemeteries, or land use designations for that property, going back as far as records exist.”

“This about those bones the dog dug up?” she asked, blue eyes sharp despite her seventy-plus years. “Terrible business. I was just saying to Mabel at the post office, nothing good ever came from disturbing the past.”

The news had spread, as it always did on an island with fewer than five thousand year-round residents. Matt had hoped for at least twenty-four hours before the rumor mill kicked into high gear, but he should have known better.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details,” he replied, conscious of how much damage loose information could do to an investigation.

Mrs. Holloway sniffed. Matt bit back a retort and smiled pleasantly at the old woman.

She made a show of considering his request, tapping one gnarled finger against her chin. “Well, I suppose if it’s official business. They won’t be on the computer, you know. Town council hasn’t approved the budget for the digitization project.” She sighed dramatically. “It’s all in the records room. You’ll need to look through the original documents.”

She reached beneath the counter and produced an ancient-looking key attached to a wooden paddle labeled ARCHIVES in faded black marker. “Follow me.”

Matt trailed after her down a narrow hallway lined with photographs of the island’s past, fishing boats from the early 1900s, the grand opening of the ferry terminal in 1952, the school’s centennial celebration where Matt’s own father stood proudly among the faculty. He was a history teacher, now retired.

“Now, someone else came asking about the mansion just this morning,” Mrs. Holloway remarked as she turned the key in a heavy door at the end of the corridor. Without the telltale sound of the lock retracting, Mrs. Holloway yanked the key from the door and shook her head in disapproval. “And she left this unlocked… Quite the coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Matt’s interest piqued. “Someone else? Who?”

“Young woman, not from around here.” Mrs. Holloway pushed open the door, revealing a cramped room filled with floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units, each laden with boxes, folders, and bound ledgers. The smell of old paper intensified. “Very polite, pretty. British, I think, from the accent.”

The records room was dimly lit by fluorescent tubes that buzzed and flickered overhead. Mrs. Holloway led him into the far side of the room. The space was larger than it first appeared, extending back into what must have once been another room entirely.