Page 4 of Buried Secrets

“An ongoing investigation,” he replied flatly.

A flash of annoyance crossed her features. “How very forthcoming.”

“I could say the same about your research interests, Ms. Mathews.” Matt located a thick folder labeled Costigan Estate - Deed Transfers and pulled it out. “Immigration patterns seem like a rather broad topic for such specific property research.”

“The specific illuminates the general, Sheriff.” She shrugged, turning back to her own documents. “I wouldn’t expect everyone to appreciate academic methodologies.”

The subtle dig rankled. The academic judging the cop. It bit under his skin the same way it had most of his life.

Matt spread the folder’s contents on the table, revealing yellowed documents filled with flowing cursive and legal terminology. From what he knew, the foundation in all its iterations had acquired the mansion in the late 1800s and had continuously operated as a home for pregnant unwed or widowed mothers.

What caught his attention was a notation about “discontinued operations” dating back to 1989, several years before the actual sale to Truman Costigan in the early 90s. The foundation had kept the property but ceased their services. Interesting timing.

He was so absorbed in the documents that he almost didn’t notice Kaitlin’s surreptitious glances at his materials. When he shifted position to block her view, her eyes narrowed slightly.

“If we’re researching the same property,” she said with forced casualness, “perhaps we could share information. Save us both time.”

“I think we’re looking for different things, Ms. Mathews,” Matt replied.

“Kaitlin, please,” she said. “And we might find our research overlaps more than you think.”

Matt looked up, meeting those striking green eyes directly. “What exactly are you hoping to find in these records?”

She hesitated, then replied, “Historical context. The people and their history. In particular, the foundation’s records of who stayed there would be particularly valuable.”

“Resident records?” Matt’s interest sharpened. “Why those specifically?”

“Demographics,” she answered too quickly. “Country of origin, duration of stay, eventual destination. All relevant to my work.”

Matt didn’t believe her for a second. Her interest was too specific, too personal somehow. Also, he knew the town wouldn’t likely keep the foundation’s resident records. As a researcher, shouldn’t she know that? Or maybe records were kept differently in England.

“There aren’t likely to be resident logs in town records,” he pointed out, watching carefully for her reaction. “Those would have been private Foundation documents.”

Obviously flustered, she waved him away. “Yes, well, one starts somewhere,” she replied, frustration edging her tone. “What about you, Sheriff? What exactly are you hoping these property records will tell you about your… investigation?”

The way she emphasized the last word made it clear she wasn’t buying his vagueness either. They were at an impasse, both clearly withholding their true intentions.

“I prefer Matt, actually,” he said instead of answering her question. “And I think I’ll check those plot maps Mrs. Holloway mentioned.”

He moved to the back shelf and pulled down a heavy bound volume.

They worked in strained silence for the next hour, each carefully guarding their materials from the other’s view. Matt found no records of any cemetery or burial ground on the property, but he did uncover something intriguing, a series of building permits from the 1970s for “structural modifications” to the eastern wing of the mansion, followed by health department inspections that referenced “upgraded medical facilities.”

What kind of home for unwed mothers needed medical facilities beyond the basics? He assumed the reputable Foundation would send patients with any complications to the hospital in Portland.

Across the table, Kaitlin muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like profanity.

“Problem?” Matt asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied coolly, retrieving a tissue from her purse to stop the bleeding of a paper cut. “Though one would think records would be digitized these days.”

“Small town budgets,” Matt shrugged. “But what we lack in digital efficiency, we make up for in character.”

“Is that what you call it?” She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, revealing that small scar along her jawline again. It looked like the kind of mark that might come from a childhood injury, thin and faded with time.

Matt found himself unexpectedly curious about it, about her. Her presence on the island wasn’t adding up. In his experience, outsiders were always suspect. The summer visitors didn’t care for the island as the year-rounders did. They came and went, just like the summer season itself.

Everything about Kaitlin Mathews seemed slightly off—like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together. Her accent sounded genuinely British, but there was something rehearsed about her story, something too polished about her explanation for researching the mansion’s history.