Remember Me (18 page)

“Was she joking?”

“I don't know. With her you never could tell.” Marie pointed to the trays of polish. “Same color as your fingers, strawberry sorbet?”

“Please.”

Marie shook the bottle, unscrewed the cap and with careful strokes began to paint Debbie's toenails. “Such a shame,” she sighed. “Underneath, Vivian was really a nice person, just so insecure. That day she was talking to Sandra was the last time I ever saw her. She died three days later.”

T
he captain's table restaurant, housed in the Hyannis Yacht Club, overlooked the harbor.

As a longtime member of the club and frequent customer of the restaurant, John had secured a desirable table in the dining room's glassed-in addition. He insisted that Menley sit facing the window so that she could enjoy the view of Nantucket Sound, the graceful sailboats, the sleek yachts and the ponderous island steamships that brought tourists back and forth from Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket.

When Menley had left Remember House at quarter of seven, Hannah was already tucked in for the night. Now as she sipped champagne, a thought haunted her. Was there a likeness of Captain Andrew Freeman in the Sprague files, one that she had glimpsed and that had made a subconscious impression on her as she was going through that vast mound of papers? That was what she let Jan Paley believe. And then she wondered, how often in the last few days had she used the words “unconscious” and “subconscious”? She reminded herself that even the infrequent tranquilizers she was taking could make her feel fuzzy.

She shook her head to push away the distracting thoughts. Now that she was at the restaurant, she was
glad she had come. Maybe that was why Adam was anxious for her to have people around. She used to be a truly outgoing person, but after Bobby's death, it had become a real effort to try to seem cheerful and interested in anyone or anything.

During her pregnancy with Hannah, she'd been writing the last David book and was glad to be totally involved with finishing it. She had found that when she wasn't busy, she would start to worry that something might go wrong, that maybe she would miscarry or the baby would be stillborn.

And since Hannah's birth, she'd been battling the harrowing episodes of PTSD—flashbacks, anxiety attacks, depression.

A pretty dreary litany of problems for a man like Adam who has a superstressful job to live with, she thought. Earlier she had been so resentful of Adam's transparent efforts to make her go out, to have Amy stay overnight. Now she desperately wished he were beside her at this table.

Menley knew she was at last looking like her old self. Her waistline was completely back to normal, and tonight she had chosen to wear a pale gray silk suit with a bolero jacket and wide-cut slacks. Charcoal gray cuffs accentuated the charcoal gray camisole. Her hair, bleaching from the sun, was tied back in a simple knot at the nape of her neck. The silver-and-diamond choker and matching earrings Adam had given her when they were engaged complemented the outfit. She realized that it felt good to dress up again.

It had been a not-unpleasant surprise to find that Scott Covey was John and Elaine's other guest. Menley was aware of the appreciation in his eyes when the maître d' brought her to the table. A part of his charm, she acknowledged to herself, was that Scott seemed to be oblivious to his astonishing good looks. His manner
was, if anything, a trifle shy, and he had the gift of paying close attention to whoever was speaking.

He referred briefly to the search warrant. “Your advice was right, Menley. When I reached Adam, he told me he couldn't do anything about it, but he did tell me to stay in closer touch and leave the answering machine on all the time.”

“Adam's a very decisive guy,” Elaine smiled.

“I'm damn glad he's in my corner,” Covey said, but then added, “let's not spoil the evening by talking about it. One consolation about having nothing to hide: It's a terrible invasion when the police are ransacking your home to try to prove you're a criminal, but there's a big difference between being outraged and being worried.”

Heatedly, Elaine snapped, “Don't get me started. The Carpenters should have shown half the concern for Vivian when she was alive as they think they're showing now that she's dead. I tell you, when that poor kid bought her house three years ago, she seemed so alone. I brought over a bottle of champagne later, and it was pathetic how grateful she was. She was just sitting there by herself.”

“Elaine,” John warned.

When she saw the tears welling in Scott's eyes, Elaine bit her lip. “Oh God, Scott, I'm so sorry. You're right. Let's change the subject.”

“I will,” John beamed. “We're having our wedding reception here, and you two are the first to be officially notified that the exact time is four o'clock on Saturday, November twenty-sixth. We even decided on the menu: turkey stew.” His laugh was a
heh-heh-heh
sound. “Don't forget, that's two days after Thanksgiving.” He squeezed Elaine's hand.

Elaine looked like a bride, Menley thought. Her white cowl-neck dress was set off by a pearl-and-gold necklace. Her soft-brushed blond hair flattered her
thin, somewhat angular face. The large pear-shaped diamond on her left hand was a clear and present sign of John's generosity.

And the downside, Menley decided over dessert, is that John
does
love to talk about insurance and should
not
tell jokes. She was used to Adam's quick, sharp wit, and it was excruciating to hear John begin, yet again, “That reminds me of a story about . . .”

At one point, during a tedious recital, Scott Covey raised an eyebrow to her, and she felt her lips twitch. Coconspirator, she thought.

But John was a solid, good man, and a lot of women probably envied Elaine.

Still when they rose from the table, Menley was more than ready, even anxious, to get home. John suggested that he and Elaine follow her to the door to make sure she arrived safely.

“Oh, no, please, I'm fine.” She tried not to sound irritated. I'm developing too much of a knee-jerk reaction to any hint of protection, she thought.

*   *   *

Hannah was peacefully asleep when Menley arrived home. “She's been great,” Amy said. “Do you want me to come by tomorrow around the same time, Mrs. Nichols?”

“No, that won't be necessary,” Menley said evenly. “I'll be in touch.” She regretted the hurt she saw in Amy's crestfallen face but realized that she was looking forward to being alone with Hannah until Adam got back from New York tomorrow.

*   *   *

It was harder to go to sleep tonight. It wasn't that she was nervous. It was just that in her mind she kept going through the pile of pictures and sketches in Phoebe Sprague's files. She'd thought she'd barely glanced at them. They were mostly sketches of early settlers, some of them unnamed, and landmark buildings;
property maps; sailing ships—an unsorted mishmash, really.

Was it possible that she'd come across one that didn't have a name attached to it and subconsciously copied it when she was trying to envision Captain Andrew Freeman? His looks weren't that unusual. A lot of the early-eighteenth-century seamen had short, dark beards.

And then by coincidence, I'd actually drawn his face? she mocked herself.
Subconsciously, unconsciously
—those words again, she thought. Dear God what is happening to me?

Three times before 2:00
A.M
. she got up to check on Hannah and found her in a sound sleep. In just a little over a week up here, she looks bigger, Menley mused as she lightly touched the small outstretched hand.

Finally she felt her own eyes growing heavy and knew she soon would be drifting off. She settled back in bed and touched Adam's pillow, missing him acutely. Had he phoned tonight? Probably not. Amy would have told her. But why hadn't he tried around ten-thirty? He knew she'd be home by then.

Or I could have called him, Menley thought. I should have let him know I'd enjoyed the evening. He might have been afraid to call me for fear I'd be complaining about going out.

Oh, God, I just want to be myself, I just want to be normal.

*   *   *

At four o'clock the sound of a train roaring toward her thundered through the house.

She was at the railroad crossing, trying to get through it in time. The train was coming.

She bolted up, shoved her fingers in her ears, trying to drown out the sound, and stumbled wildly to the nursery. She had to save Bobby.

Hannah was screaming, her arms flailing, her legs kicking the blankets away.

The train was going to kill her too, Menley thought, her mind racing to grasp some sense of reality in all the confusion.

But then it was over. The train was going away, the clickedy-click of the wheels vanishing into the night.

Hannah was screaming.

“Stop it,” Menley shouted at the baby. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Hannah screeched louder.

Menley sank down on the bed opposite the crib, trembling, hugging herself, afraid to trust herself to pick up Hannah.

And then from downstairs, she heard him calling her, his voice excited and joyous, summoning her to him, “Mommy, Mommy.”

Arms outstretched, sobbing his name, she rushed to find Bobby.

T
he district attorney called a meeting for Wednesday afternoon at his office in the Barnstable courthouse. Scheduled to be present were the three officers from his staff who had participated in the search of the Covey house, the medical examiner who had conducted
the autopsy, two expert witnesses from the Coast Guard group in Woods Hole—one to testify about the currents the day Vivian Carpenter drowned, the second to discuss the condition of the diving gear she was wearing—and Nat Coogan.

“That means I get an early start today,” Nat told Debbie on Wednesday morning. “I want to take a look at Tina's car and see if it drips oil, and I want to talk to Vivian's lawyer to see if she contacted him.”

Deb was placing a new batch of waffles on her husband's plate. Their two sons had already finished breakfast and taken off for their summer jobs.

“I shouldn't feed these to you,” she sighed. “You're supposed to lose twenty pounds.”

“I need the energy today, doll.”

“Sure you do.” Debbie shook her head.

From the breakfast table Nat looked admiringly at the glints of light in her hair. “You do look great,” he said. “I'll take you out to dinner tonight to show you off. By the way, you never did tell me how much it cost to get all that done.”

“Eat your waffles,” Debbie said as she passed him the syrup. “You don't want to know.”

*   *   *

Nat's first stop was the Wayside Inn. He poked his head in the dining room. As he had hoped, Tina was working. Then he went to the office, where he found only the secretary.

“Just a question,” he said, “about Tina.”

The secretary shrugged. “I guess it's all right. They let you look at her file the other day.”

“Who would know if she received many personal calls here?” Nat asked.

“She wouldn't have received them. Unless it's a real emergency, we take a message and the waitress calls back on her break.”

I guess it's a blind alley, he thought. “Would you happen to know what kind of car Tina drives?”

She pointed out the window to the parking lot in the back of the building. “That green Toyota is Tina's.”

The car was at least ten years old. Rust spots on the fenders were deteriorating into breaks in the steel. Grunting as he squatted down, Nat peered at the undercarriage. Glistening drops of oil were clearly visible. There were stains on the macadam.

Just as I thought, he exulted. He labored to his feet and looked inside through the driver's window. Tina's car was sloppy. Tape cassettes were scattered on the front passenger seat. Empty soda cans were clumped on the floor. He looked through the back window. Newspapers and magazines were strewn on the seat. And then, half covered by paper bags, he saw two empty pint-sized oil cans on the floor.

He hurried into the office again. “One last question—by any chance does Tina take a turn at the reservations desk?”

“Well, yes, she does,” the secretary replied. “She's assigned there from eleven to eleven-thirty, during Karen's break.”

“So she could have received personal calls there?”

“I suppose so.”

“Thank you very much.” Nat's step was buoyant as he headed for his next stop, a chat with Vivian's lawyer.

*   *   *

Leonard Wells, Esquire, had a comfortable suite of offices a block from Main Street in Hyannis. A reserved-looking man in his fifties, with frameless glasses that magnified thoughtful brown eyes, he was crisply dressed in a beige lightweight suit. Nat had the immediate impression that Wells was the kind of man who never opened his collar and loosened his tie in public.

“You are aware, Detective Coogan, that I've already been visited by the district attorney's staff, the Carpenter family's attorney and the representative of the insurance company that carried the policy on the emerald ring. I fail to understand how much more I can contribute to the investigation.”

“Perhaps you can't, sir,” Nat said pleasantly. “But there's always the chance that something has been overlooked. I do, of course, know the terms of the will.”

“Every cent Vivian had, as well as her home, boat, car and jewelry, were inherited by her new husband.” Frosty disapproval dripped from Wells' voice.

“Who was the beneficiary of her prior will?”

“There was no prior will. Vivian came to me three years ago, at the time she inherited the principal of her trust, five million dollars.”