Page 55 of Buried Secrets

“Just the flu,” she said, with her uninjured hand toward the empty rocking chair beside her. “Nothing serious. Have a seat, Sheriff. I expect you’ve got questions for me.”

Matt settled into the offered chair, noting how it had been positioned for conversation that still allowed observation of approaching visitors. The porch commanded a view down the sloping street toward the harbor, where fishing boats bobbed gently against the morning tide.

“You’ve been expecting me,” Matt repeated, not a question but an invitation for explanation.

Mrs. Holloway’s thin lips curved in what might have been a smile on a less austere face. “Bodies found on mansion grounds, records room set ablaze, that FBI agent asking questions all over town, and the pretty British researcher. Of course I expected you. Only wondered why it took so long for you to come knocking.”

“Been working through a list,” Matt replied in the casual tone that often yielded more information than formal interrogation. “Starting with those most directly connected to the mansion’s operations.”

Something like genuine amusement flickered across Mrs. Holloway’s features. She was clearly enjoying this.

“As the town clerk, you processed the paperwork that came down from the mansion, right?” he asked.

“Among other duties.” Mrs. Holloway adjusted the quilt across her lap and winced slightly as it disturbed her injured hand. “Robert handled the mansion’s administration. I handled the birth certificates and state filing requirements, which are all the same thing today as back then.”

“Robert being your brother-in-law,” Matt clarified. “You lived with him after your husband’s passing.”

Mrs. Holloway’s gaze drifted toward the harbor, where a fishing trawler was making its way out to sea. “David died six months after we married. Fishing accident. I was twenty-two, no family of my own, no real skills beyond typing and filing. Robert offered me a place to stay, helped me secure the clerk position. It worked out for both of us. He and Jasper became my family.”

The trawler disappeared around the peninsula’s curve, leaving only its wake rippling across the harbor’s surface. Mrs. Holloway watched it go with a distant expression.

“That was generous of him,” Matt prompted when her silence extended.

“He was a fair man. Robert believed in keeping your obligations. To family, to community.”

“And to the foundation?” Matt kept his tone exploratory rather than accusatory.

Mrs. Holloway’s pale blue eyes sharp beneath silver brows returned to him. “The foundation gave jobs to nearly thirty islanders at its peak. It brought in health care services we didn’t have before. The workers were able to stay off food stamps during winter months when tourism dried up.” She lifted her chin slightly. “Yes, Robert was dedicated to the foundation and what it brought to the island.”

“You said you processed birth certificates for babies born at the mansion?”

Mrs. Holloway nodded once, precisely. “Standard procedure. The attending physician, Dr. Whitaker in most cases, would complete the medical portions. I would file the documentation with the state after verification.”

“Verification of what, exactly?”

“Completeness. Accuracy of names, dates, signatures.” Mrs. Holloway’s uninjured hand tapped a rhythm against the quilt. “Basic clerical review.”

“Did you interact much with Dr. Whitaker during this process?”

Something flickered across Mrs. Holloway’s face, too brief to identify before she suppressed it. “Occasionally. Not day to day. Mostly, he left the paperwork with Robert.”

“What was your impression of Dr. Whitaker?”

“Professional, kind.” The words emerged with practiced neutrality.

“Were you aware of any improprieties in his practice? Any concerns about the care at the mansion?”

Mrs. Holloway’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. “If you’re referring to the scandal, well I don’t know what to say about that. James Whitaker was a respected physician who provided services to young women in difficult circumstances. Beyond that, whatever he did in his personal life was none of my business.”

The defense came too quickly, rehearsed even. Matt also noted the use of the doctor’s first name.

“You knew him well, then.”

“Robert did,” Mrs. Holloway corrected cooly.

“Were you aware he had family in the area? A daughter, grandson?”

Mrs. Holloway’s injured hand shifted beneath the quilt, a movement that drew a slight intake of breath through her teeth.