Remember Me (15 page)

When Hendin returned he was carrying cans of beer and soda. “It's there if you change your mind,” he said as he placed the soda in front of Nat. “All right, what do you want?”

“This is routine. You may have heard or read about Vivian Carpenter Covey's death?”

Hendin's eyes narrowed. “And last year Scott Covey was running around with my girlfriend and you want to know if he's still involved with her.”

Nat shrugged. “You don't waste time, Mr. Hendin.”

“Fred.”

“Okay, Fred.”

“Tina and I are going to get married. We started dating early last summer, and then Covey came along. Talk about old smoothie. I warned Tina that she was wasting her time, but listen, you've seen the guy. He fed her a line like you wouldn't believe. Unfortunately, she did.”

“How did you feel about it?”

“Sore. And in a funny way, sorry for Tina. She's not as tough as she looks or sounds.”

Yes she is, Nat thought.

“It was just as I figured,” Hendin said. “Covey did a disappearing act at the end of the summer.”

“And Tina came running back to you.”

Hendin smiled. “That's what I kind of liked. She's got spunk. I went to see her where she was waitressing and said I knew Covey was gone and I thought he was a louse. She told me not to waste my pity.”

“Meaning she was still in touch with him?” Nat asked quickly.

“No way. Meaning she wasn't going to be grateful to me. We only dated once in a while over the winter. She saw a lot of other guys. Then in the spring she finally came around to figuring I'm not so bad.”

“Did she tell you she contacted Scott Covey when he moved back here?”

Hendin's forehead became a mass of furrows. “Not right away. She told me a couple of weeks ago. You got to realize Tina isn't the kind to let things go. She was damn sore and had to get it out of her system.” He gestured. “See this room, this house? It was my mother's. I moved in a couple of years ago after she died.” He took a long swallow of beer.

“When Tina and I started talking about getting married, she told me there was no way she was going to live with all this junk. She's right. I just didn't bother to change anything except for making the breakfront and setting up my films and tapes in it. Tina wants a bigger house. We're looking around for a ‘handyman's special.' But what I mean is, Tina says it straight.”

Nat consulted his notes. “Tina lives in a rented condo in Yarmouth.”

“Uh-huh. Just over the town line, a couple of miles from here. Makes it convenient for the two of us.”

“Why did she give up her job at the Daniel Webster Inn and go to work in Chatham? That's a good forty-minute drive from here in summer traffic.”

“She liked the Wayside Inn. The hours are better. The tips are good. Listen, Coogan. Stay off Tina's case.”

Hendin put his beer down and stood up. There was no mistaking that he was not about to discuss Tina any further.

Nat sank deeper into the chair and became aware of the sharp edges of broken plastic around the worn spot behind his head. “Then of course you totally condoned Tina's visit to Scott Covey when his wife was still missing.”

Bull's eye, Nat thought as he watched Hendin's face
cloud. A faint flush darkened the skin tone of his face, accentuating the prominent cheekbones. “I think we've talked enough,” he said flatly.

I
t had been a remarkably pleasant day. As happened occasionally, for some inexplicable reason, Phoebe had experienced brief moments of lucidity.

At one point she'd asked about the children and Henry had quickly placed a conference call. Listening in on an extension, he'd heard the joy in Richard and Joan's voices as they spoke to their mother. For a few minutes there'd been a real exchange.

Then she asked, “And how are . . .”

Henry understood the pause. Phoebe was groping for the names of the grandchildren. Swiftly he provided them.

“I know.” Now Phoebe's voice was irritable. “At least you didn't start by saying ‘Remember . . .' ” Her sigh was an angry reproach.

“Dad,” Joan sounded near tears.

“Everything's fine,” he warned her.

A click told him that Phoebe had hung up. The wonderful moments of reprieve apparently were over. Henry stayed on the phone long enough to tell his
children that the nursing home had an opening on September first.

“Take it for her,” Richard said firmly. “We'll come down and stay through Labor Day.”

“So will we,” Joan echoed.

“You're good kids,” Henry said, trying to push back the huskiness that was enveloping his throat.

“I want to be with someone who thinks of me as a kid,” his daughter told him, a catch in her voice.

“See you in a couple of weeks, Dad,” Richard promised. “Hang in there.”

Henry had been on the bedroom extension, Phoebe in her old office. Now Henry hurried to the foyer, the worry that Phoebe in a split second might wander away always with him. But she had not strayed; he found her sitting at the desk where she had spent so many productive hours.

The bottom drawer, which had held so many files, was open and empty. Phoebe was staring at it. The hair she used to wear in a smooth chignon was slipping from the pins that Henry had used to try to secure it in a bun.

She turned when she heard him come in. “My notes.” She pointed to the empty drawer. “Where are they?”

Even now he would not refuse her truth. “I lent them to Adam's wife. She wants to consult them for a book she's writing. She'll credit you, Phoebe.”

“Adam's wife.” The look of irritation that had crossed her face evolved into a questioning frown.

“She was here yesterday. She and Adam live in Remember House. She's going to write a book about the time when the house was built and use the story of Captain Freeman.”

Phoebe Sprague's eyes took on a dreamy quality. “Someone should clear Mehitabel's name,” she said.
“That's what I wanted to do. Someone should investigate Tobias Knight.”

She slammed shut the drawer. “I'm hungry. I'm always hungry.”

Then as Henry walked toward her, she looked directly at him. “I love you, Henry. Help me, please.”

W
hen Hannah woke up Menley and Adam went for a late afternoon swim. The Remember House property granted private beach rights, which meant that, while anyone could walk on their beach, no one could settle on it.

The midday warmth was edged now with a hint of early autumn. The breeze was cool, and there were no more strollers passing by.

Adam sat beside Hannah, comfortably propped up in her stroller while Menley swam. “Your mama certainly loves the water, kiddo,” he said as he watched Menley dive into the increasingly turbulent waves. Alarmed, he stood up as he saw her venturing farther out. Finally he walked to the water's edge and waved to her, beckoning her to come in.

Had she not seen him, or pretended not to see him? he wondered as she swam farther out. A strong wave gathered, crested and broke. She rode it in and
emerged from the surf, sputtering and smiling, her salt-filled hair hanging around her face.

“Terrific!” she exulted.

“And dangerous. Menley, this is the Atlantic Ocean.”

“No kidding. I thought it was a wading pool.”

Together they walked across the beach to where Hannah still sat, complacently observing a seagull hopping along the shore.

“Men, I'm not joking. When I'm not here, I don't want you swimming out so far.”

She stopped. “And be sure to leave the monitor on when your daughter is asleep. Right? And don't you think it would be nice to have Amy stay overnight? To mind
me,
not Hannah,
me?
Right? And isn't your little weapon the implied threat that we need full-time live-in help because maybe this post-traumatic stress thing is a problem? After all, I was the one who drove the car in front of the train when your son was killed.”

Adam grasped her arms. “Menley, stop it. Damn it. You keep blaming me for not forgiving you for Bobby's death, but there's no question of blame here. The only problem is that you can't forgive yourself.”

They went back to the house, stiffly aware that each had hurt the other deeply and that they should talk this one through. The phone was ringing as they opened the door, however, and Adam ran for it. Any talk would have to come later. Menley tossed a towel over her damp swimsuit, picked up Hannah and listened.

“Elaine! How are you?”

Menley watched as a look of concern came over his face. What was Elaine saying to him? she wondered. And a moment later, What did he mean when he said, “Thanks for telling me”?

Then his tone changed, becoming cheerful again. “Tomorrow night? I'm sorry but I'm on my way to New York. But listen, maybe Menley . . .”

No,
Menley thought.

Adam covered the receiver with one hand. “Men, Elaine and John are having dinner tomorrow night at the Captain's Table in Hyannis. They want you to join them.”

“Many thanks, but I want to just stay in and work. Another time.” Menley nuzzled Hannah. “You're a terrific kid,” she murmured.

“Men, Elaine really wants you to come. I hate to think of you alone in this place. Why don't you go? You can get Amy to sit for a few hours.”

The implied threat, Menley thought. Go and show how sociable you are, or Adam will want someone to be with you at all times. She forced herself to smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

Adam was back on the phone. “ 'Laine, Menley would love to come. Seven should be fine.” He covered the receiver with his hand again and said, “Men, they think it would be a good idea if Amy stays over. They don't want her driving home late.”

Menley looked at Adam. She knew that even Hannah had felt the tension in her body. The baby stopped smiling and began to whimper. “Tell
'Laine,”
Menley said, emphasizing the name and Adam's personal abbreviation of it, “that I am perfectly capable of being alone in this or any other house, and if Amy can't drive home at ten o'clock on a summer evening, then she is too immature to be minding my child.”

*   *   *

The thaw began at dinner. While Menley fed and bathed Hannah, Adam made a quick trip to the market and returned with fresh lobsters, watercress, green beans and a crisp loaf of Italian bread.

They prepared dinner together, sipped a cold chardonnay while the lobsters steamed and at the end of the meal brought their cups of espresso with them
while they strolled to the end of the property and watched powerful waves pound the shoreline.

The taste of the salt-filled wind on her lips calmed Menley. If Adam were the one going through these bouts of anxiety and depression, I'd be worried too, she reminded herself.

Later, when they were going to bed, they checked Hannah for the last time that night. She had moved around in the crib so that she was lying from side to side. Adam straightened her, covered her and for a moment rested his hand on her back.

Something else Menley had gleaned from the files flashed through her mind. In the old Cape days the special love between a father and his baby daughter had been acknowledged and even named. The daughter was her father's
tortience.

Later, their arms around each other, drifting off to sleep, Adam asked the question he could no longer suppress. “Men,” he whispered, “why didn't you want Amy to know you'd been on the widow's walk?”

W
hen Nat Coogan got to work on Tuesday morning, he found a note on his desk. “See me.” It was signed by his boss, Frank Shea, the chief of police.

What's up? he wondered as he headed for his boss's
office. He found Frank on the phone with the district attorney. Shea's fingers were drumming on the desk. His usual amiable expression was missing.

Nat settled in a chair, listening to the half of the conversation he could hear and guessing the rest.

The heat was on. Graham Carpenter's insurance company had gotten in on the act. They were more than happy to subscribe to Carpenter's theory that his daughter had experienced foul play, that her emerald ring had been forced from her finger by Scott Covey and was now in his possession.

Nat raised his eyebrows as he realized that the next part of the discussion had to do with the study of ocean currents. He gathered that Coast Guard experts were willing to testify that if Vivian Carpenter Covey had been scuba diving where her husband claimed they were when they got separated, her body would not have washed ashore in Stage Harbor but instead would have been carried out toward Martha's Vineyard.

When Shea got off the phone, he said, “Nat, I'm glad you listened to that bird-dog hunch of yours. The DA was very pleased to hear that we already have an active investigation going. It's good that we've got a head start, because when the media get wind of this, it'll turn into a circus. Remember what they did with the von Bulow case.”

“Yes, of course. And we face some of the same problems the prosecution did in that case. Innocent or guilty, von Bulow got off because he had a good lawyer. I'm convinced Covey is guilty as sin, but proving it is another matter. He has a damn good lawyer too. It's a lousy break for us that Adam Nichols took on Covey's case.”

“We may have a chance to find out how good Nichols is soon enough.

“We're about to find more hard evidence. On the
basis of the missing emerald ring and everything else we know, the DA is getting a search warrant for Covey's home and boat. I want you there when his people go in.”

Nat got up. “I can hardly wait.”

*   *   *

In the privacy of his own office, Nat gave vent to some of the irritation he felt. Now that it was obvious that the media would pick up the scent on the case and start howling for news, the district attorney was going to have the state police take over the investigation. It's not just that I want to break this case myself, Nat thought. It's that I think it's a stupid grandstand play, rushing it to a grand jury before we have something absolutely solid to go on.