Remember Me (6 page)

G
raham Carpenter could not sleep. He tried to lie quietly in the king-sized bed that had long ago replaced the double bed he and Anne had shared in the early days of their marriage. As they were approaching their twentieth anniversary they had both admitted that they wanted more room and made the change. More room to stretch out, more free time, more travel. With their second daughter in college it was all possible.

The night this bed had arrived, they had toasted each other with champagne. Vivian was conceived shortly after that. Sometimes he wondered if from the very beginning she had known that she was unwanted. Was her lifelong hostility to them and insecurity with others triggered in the womb?

A fanciful notion. Vivian had been a demanding, malcontent child who became a problem teenager and a difficult adult. An underachiever at school, self-pitying, her motto had been, “I do my best.”

To which his angry response was, “No, damn it, you
don't
do your best. You don't know the meaning of the word.”

At the boarding school where the older girls had excelled, Vivian was suspended twice, then finally dismissed. For a while she had flirted with drugs, fortunately
something she hadn't continued. And then there was the apparent constant need to annoy Anne. She'd ask her to go shopping for clothes, then refuse to follow any of Anne's suggestions.

She didn't finish college, didn't ever stay longer than six months on any job. Years ago he had begged his mother not to let her have access to her trust fund until she was thirty. But she'd come into it all at twenty-one, bought that house and afterwards rarely contacted them. It was an absolute shock when in May she had phoned to invite them to her house to a reception. She had gotten married.

What could he say about Scott Covey? Good looking, well mannered, bright enough, certainly devoted to Vivian. She had literally glowed with happiness. The only sour note had come when one of her friends joked about a prenuptial agreement. She had flared, “No, we
don't
have one. In fact, we're making wills in favor of each other.”

Graham had wondered what Scott Covey had to leave anyone. Vivian insinuated he had a private income. Maybe.

About one thing, for once, Vivian had been telling the unvarnished truth. She had changed her will the same day she was married, and now Scott would inherit all the money from her trust fund, along with her house in Chatham. And they had been married twelve week.
Twelve weeks.

“Graham.” Anne's voice was soft.

He reached for her hand. “I'm awake.”

“Graham, I know Vivy's body was in very bad shape. What about her right hand?”

“I don't know, dear. Why?”

“Because, nobody has said anything about her emerald ring. Maybe her hand was gone. But if it wasn't, Scott may have the ring, and I'd like to have it back.
It's always been in our family, and I can't imagine some other woman wearing it.”

“I'll find out, dear.”

“Graham, why couldn't I ever reach Vivian? What did I do wrong?”

He grasped her hand more tightly. There was no answer he could give her.

*   *   *

That day he and Anne played golf. It was physical and emotional therapy for both of them. They got home around five, showered, and he fixed them cocktails. Then he said. “Anne, while you were dressing I tried to reach Scott. There's a message on the machine. He's on the boat and will be back around six. Let's swing by and ask him about the ring. Then we'll go out to dinner.” He paused. “I mean you and I will go out for dinner.”

“If he has the ring, he doesn't have to part with it. It was Vivian's to leave to him.”

“If he has the ring we'll offer to buy it at fair market value. If that doesn't work, we'll pay him whatever he asks for it.”

Graham Carpenter's mouth set in a grim line. Scott's reaction to this request would allay or verify the suspicion and doubt that was choking his soul.

I
t was five-thirty when Menley and Hannah finally got back to Chatham. When they left the parking lot, she had forced herself to drive over the railroad crossing again. Then she had circled the rotary and driven over it a third time. No more panicky driving for me, she vowed. Not when it means I'm jeopardizing Hannah.

The sun was still high over the ocean, and to Menley it seemed as though the house had a contented air about it as it basked in the warm rays that enveloped it. Inside, the sun streaming through the stained glass of the fan-shaped window over the door cast a rainbow of colors onto the bare oak floor.

Holding Hannah tightly, Menley walked to the front window and looked out over the ocean. She wondered if, when this house was first built, the young bride had ever watched to see the mast of her husband's ship as he returned from a voyage. Or had she been too busy dallying with her lover?

Hannah stirred restlessly. “Okay, chow time,” Menley said, wishing once again that she had been able to nurse Hannah. When the post-traumatic stress symptoms began, the doctor had ordered tranquilizers
and discontinued the nursing. “You need tranquilizers, but she doesn't,” he had explained.

Oh well, you're certainly thriving anyway, Menley thought as she poured formula into the bottle and warmed it in a saucepan.

*   *   *

At seven o'clock she tucked Hannah into the crib, this time snug in a sleeping bag. A glance about the room confirmed that the quilt was folded on the bed where it belonged. Menley stared at it uneasily. She had casually asked Adam if he had covered the baby during the night. No, he had replied, obviously wondering why she asked.

She had thought quickly and said, “Then she isn't as much a kicker up here as she was at home. Probably the sea air keeps her sleeping quietly.”

He hadn't realized there had been a far different reason for the question.

She hesitated outside the baby's room. It was silly to leave the hall light on. It was much too bright. But for some reason Menley felt uneasy about the prospect of coming upstairs later with only a tiny night-light to guide her footsteps.

She had her evening mapped out. There were fresh tomatoes in the refrigerator. She'd fix a quick pomodoro sauce, pour it over linguine and make a watercress salad. There was a half loaf of Italian bread in the freezer.

That will be perfect, Menley thought. And while I eat, I'll make some notes for the book.

The few days in Chatham had already given her ideas on what she would do with the story line. With Adam away, she would spend the long, calm evening fleshing them out.

H
e had spent the whole day on
Viv's Toy.
The twenty-two-foot inboard/outboard motorboat was in excellent shape. Vivian had been talking about replacing it with a sailboat. “Now that I've got a captain for it, should we get one big enough to do serious sailing?”

So many plans! So many dreams! Scott hadn't been scuba diving since that last day with Vivian. Today he fished for a while, checked his lobster pots and was rewarded with four two-pounders, then put on his scuba gear and went down for a while.

He docked the boat at the marina and reached home at five-thirty, then immediately went next door to the Sprague house with two of the lobsters. Henry Sprague answered the door.

“Mr. Sprague, I know at our reception your wife seemed to enjoy the lobster. I caught some today and hoped you might like to have a couple of them.”

“That's very kind,” Henry said sincerely. “Won't you come in?”

“No, that's fine. Just enjoy them. How is Mrs. Sprague?”

“About the same. Would you like to say hello? Wait, here she is.”

He turned as his wife came down the hall. “Phoebe, dear, Scott has brought lobster for you. Isn't that nice of him?”

Phoebe Sprague looked at Scott Covey, her eyes widening. “Why was she crying so hard?” she asked. “Is she all right now?”

“Nobody was crying, dear,” Henry Sprague said soothingly. He put an arm across her shoulders.

Phoebe Sprague pulled away from him. “Listen to me,” she shrieked. “I keep telling you there's a woman living in my house and you won't believe me. Here, you.” She grabbed Scott's arm and pointed to the mirror over the foyer table. The three of them were reflected in it. “See that woman.” She reached over and touched her own image. “She's living in my house and he won't believe me.”

Somewhat troubled by Phoebe Sprague's ramblings, Scott went home, deep in thought. He had planned to steam one of the remaining lobsters for himself, but he found he had no taste for food. He made a drink and checked the answering machine. There were two messages: Elaine Atkins had phoned. Did he want to leave the house on the market? She had a prospective buyer. The other was from Vivian's father. He and his wife had an urgent matter to discuss. They would stop by around six-thirty. It would take only a few minutes.

What's
that
about? Scott wondered. He checked his watch; it was ten after six already. He set down the drink and hurried in for a quick shower. He dressed in a dark blue knit shirt, chinos and Docksiders. He was just combing his hair when the bell rang.

It was the first time Anne Carpenter had been in her daughter's home since the body was found. Not knowing what she was looking for, she searched the living room with her eyes. In the three years Vivian had owned the house, Anne had only been in it a few times, and it looked about the same as she remembered.
Vivian had replaced the bedroom furniture but left this room pretty much as she had found it. On her first visit Anne had suggested that her daughter get rid of the loveseat and some of the cheap prints, but Vivian had flared up at her, despite the fact that she
had
asked for suggestions.

Scott insisted they have a drink. “I just made one. Please join me. I haven't wanted people around, but it's awfully good to see you.”

Reluctantly, Anne admitted to herself that his demeanor seemed genuinely sad. He was so strikingly good looking with his blond hair and tanned skin and hazel eyes, it was easy to see how Vivian had fallen in love with him. But what did he see in her except her money? Anne asked herself, then recoiled at her own question. What a horrible thought for a mother, she scolded herself.

“What are your plans, Scott?” Graham Carpenter asked.

“I don't have any. I still have the feeling that this is all a bad dream. I don't think I've come to grips with reality yet. You know Viv and I had been looking for a bigger house. The upstairs bedrooms are really small, and when we had a baby we'd have wanted a place where live-in help wouldn't be under our feet all the time. We even had names picked out. Graham for a boy, Anne for a girl. She told me that she always felt she was a big disappointment to the two of you and she wanted to make it up to you. She felt it was her fault, not yours.”

Anne felt a lump in her throat. She watched the convulsive tightening of her husband's mouth. “We always seemed to be at cross-purposes,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it happens like that, and as a parent you hope it will change. I'm glad if Vivy truly wanted it to change. We certainly did.”

The phone rang. Scott jumped up. “Whoever it is, I'll call back.” He hurried into the kitchen.

A moment later Anne watched with curiosity as her husband picked up his drink and walked down the hall to the bathroom. He returned just as Scott came back.

“I just wanted to put a dash more water in the scotch,” Graham explained.

“You should have gotten some ice water from the kitchen. There was nothing private about the phone conversation. That was the real estate agent wanting to know if it was all right to bring a prospective buyer around tomorrow,” Scott said. “I told her to take the house off the market.”

“Scott, there is something we need to ask.” Graham Carpenter clearly was trying to keep his emotions under control. “The emerald ring Vivian always wore. It's been in her mother's family for generations. Do you have it?”

“No, I don't.”

“You identified the body. She never took it off her finger. She wasn't wearing it when she was found?”

Scott looked away. “Mr. Carpenter, I'm grateful you and Mrs. Carpenter didn't see the body. It had been so badly attacked by marine life that there was very little left to identify. But if I had that ring I would have given it to you immediately. I knew it was a family treasure. Is there anything else of Vivian's that you want? Would her clothes fit her sisters?”

Anne winced. “No . . . no.”

The Carpenters got up together. “We'll call you for dinner soon, Scott,” Anne said.

“Please do. I only wish we'd gotten to know each other better.”

“Unless you can't part with them, perhaps you'll assemble some pictures of Vivian for us,” Graham Carpenter said.

“Of course.”

When they reached the car and started to drive away, Anne turned to her husband. “Graham, you never put water in your scotch. What were you doing?”

“I wanted to get a look at the bedroom. Anne, didn't you notice that there wasn't a single picture of Vivian in the living room? Well, I have news. There isn't a picture of her in the bedroom either. I'll bet you there isn't a trace of our daughter anywhere in that house. I don't like Covey and I don't trust him. He's a phony. He knows more than he's telling, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it.”

T
hey had set up a computer, printer and fax machine on the desk in the library. The computer and printer took up most of the surface, but it would suffice, especially since Menley didn't intend to devote all that much time to working. Adam had his portable typewriter, which Menley was always trying to get him to discard but which could be set up anywhere.