Ask Margaret what she did to your mother.

My first instinct was to call Margaret.

My second was to throw the phone into the harbor.

I had spent days discovering secrets that seemed designed to dismantle every happy memory I’d ever had.

Now someone was dragging my dead mother into it.

I couldn’t bear that.

Rebecca read the message carefully.

“Do not respond,” she said.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Could it be intended to upset you?”

“Of course.”

“Then we should preserve it and investigate before assuming it’s true.”

I nodded.

But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

That evening, my father found me sitting in my mother’s garden.

I had her letter folded inside my cardigan pocket.

He sat beside me.

“Rebecca told me about the message.”

I stared at the flowers.

“Daddy, did Mom know Margaret?”

He sighed.

“Yes.”

I turned.

“You never told me.”

“It never seemed important.”

“Why?”

My father hesitated.

Then he looked toward the house.

“Because your mother didn’t like Margaret Whitmore.”

I laughed bitterly.

“That’s something we have in common.”

He smiled sadly.

“Your mother believed Margaret was dishonest.”

I stared.

“What happened?”

“Years before you met Daniel, your mother served on the board of a charitable organization called the Harbor Women’s Housing Fund.”

I remembered the organization.

My mother volunteered there every Christmas.

Sometimes she took me along to distribute winter clothing.

“Margaret was involved?” I asked.

“Briefly.”

My father nodded.

“She joined the fundraising committee during a particularly successful campaign. Your mother later raised concerns about expenses charged to the charity.”

“What kind of expenses?”

“Luxury hotel stays, private dinners, and event planning costs that didn’t appear consistent with the charity’s mission.”

I felt cold.

“Was Margaret stealing?”

“I don’t know that. Your mother raised questions. The board reviewed the expenses, and Margaret resigned.”

“Did they report her?”

“Your mother wanted a more thorough review. The documentation available at the time was incomplete, and the matter ended without a public finding against Margaret.”

I stared at him.

“So they knew each other.”

“Yes.”

“Did Margaret know I was Mom’s daughter when Daniel introduced us?”

My father looked at me.

“I’m sure she did.”

A memory came rushing back.

The first time I met Margaret, she stared at my face for an unusually long time.

Then she asked my mother’s maiden name.

When I answered, her smile became strangely rigid.

I’d assumed she was evaluating my family background.

Now I wondered whether she’d recognized me.

“Why didn’t Mom tell me?”

“Because you were young when those events occurred. And afterward, your mother had other things on her mind.”

Cancer.

Hospitals.

Treatment.

Saying goodbye.

I pressed my hand against my mouth.

Had Margaret hated me because of something my mother knew?

It was possible.

But the message could also have been written by someone using old history to frighten me.

I needed facts.

Not another rumor.

The following morning, Rebecca arranged a meeting with Eleanor Brooks, a retired accountant who had served as treasurer of the Harbor Women’s Housing Fund.

Eleanor was seventy-four, with short silver hair and bright blue eyes.

She remembered my mother immediately.

“Grace Carter,” she said softly. “One of the finest women I ever knew.”

My throat tightened.

“Thank you.”

Eleanor invited us into her small living room.

Photographs of her grandchildren lined the mantel.

A sleeping golden retriever occupied most of the sofa.

After tea, Rebecca explained why we had come.

Eleanor listened without interrupting.

Then she nodded slowly.

“I wondered whether this would ever come up again.”

My heart quickened.

“Then something did happen?”

Eleanor looked at me.

“Your mother found discrepancies in some reimbursement requests. She questioned them. Margaret became furious.”

“What did she do?”

“She accused Grace of humiliating her in front of the committee.”

I swallowed.

“That sounds like Margaret.”

Eleanor continued.

“Margaret threatened to withdraw support from the charity. She also claimed your mother was targeting her because of a personal disagreement.”

“Was she?”

“Absolutely not.”

Eleanor’s expression hardened.

“Your mother questioned every expense carefully. She never treated Margaret differently from anyone else.”

Rebecca asked whether records remained available.

Eleanor nodded.

“I kept copies of meeting minutes and correspondence from my time as treasurer.”

She walked to a cabinet.

After several minutes, she returned with a folder.

Inside were old letters, expense summaries, and committee records.

One letter stood out.

It had been written by Margaret to my mother.

Grace,

You have embarrassed me publicly for the last time. You may think your husband’s money gives you the right to question my judgment, but there are consequences to making enemies in Charleston.

I suggest you remember that.

I stared at the words.

The date was from more than twelve years earlier.

Long before I met Daniel.

My mother had kept the letter.