Remember Me (16 page)

He took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. Now he was comfortable. Deb was always after him not to loosen his tie when they went out to dinner. She'd say, “Nat, you look so nice, but when you pull your tie down and open the top button of your shirt you spoil it. I swear you must have been hanged in a previous incarnation. They say that's the reason some people can't wear anything tight around the neck.”

Nat sat at his desk a few moments longer, thinking about Deb, about how lucky he was to have her, thinking about the bond between them, the love and the trust.

He picked up the coffee mug, went out to the machine in the hall, absentmindedly poured a cup and carried it back to the office.

Trust.
A good word. How much had Vivian Carpenter trusted her husband? If you could believe Scott Covey, she didn't trust him enough to tell him the full extent of her inheritance.

Seated at his desk again, Nat leaned back and sipped the coffee while he stared at the ceiling. If Vivian
had been as insecure as everyone seemed to indicate, wouldn't she have been watching for signs that everything was not right with Covey?

Phone calls. Did Tina ever call Covey at home, and if so, was Vivian aware of it? Vivian's phone bill. For sure she was the one who paid the expenses. Would Covey have ever been dope enough to call Tina from his home? He would have to check that out.

Something else. Vivian's lawyer, the one who prepared the new will after the marriage. It would be worth ambling over to see him.

The phone rang. It was Deb. “I was listening to the news,” she said. “There was a big story about an investigation into Vivian Carpenter's death. Did you expect that?”

“I just heard about it.” Briefly Nat filled his wife in on his meeting with Jack Shea and what he was planning to do now. He had long ago learned that Deb was an excellent sounding board for him.

“The phone bills are a good idea,” Deb said. “I'll bet anything that he wouldn't be dumb enough to call a girlfriend's apartment from home, but you say this Tina is a waitress at the Wayside Inn. Calls from his house to the Inn wouldn't be listed, but you could ask whether Tina got many personal calls there and if anyone knows who made them.”

“Very smart,” Nat said admiringly. “I've certainly educated you to think like a cop.”

“Spare me. But another thing. Go to Vivian's beauty parlor. They're hotbeds of gossip. Or better yet, maybe I should start going there. I might hear something. You told me she went to Tresses, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“I'll make an appointment for this afternoon.”

“Are you sure this is strictly business?” Nat asked.

“No, it isn't. I've been dying to get my hair frosted. They do a good job but they're expensive. Now I don't have to feel guilty. Bye, dear.”

A
fter Adam's question about Menley's not wanting Amy to know she'd been on the widow's walk, they had not talked any more but lay unhappily side by side, not touching, each aware that the other was awake. Just before dawn Menley had gotten up to check the baby. She found Hannah sleeping contentedly, the blankets cozy around her.

In the faint glow of the night-light, Menley stood over the crib, drinking in the exquisite little features, the tiny nose, the soft mouth, the lashes that cast shadows on the round cheeks, the wisps of golden hair that had begun to curl around the baby's face.

I can't swear that I
wasn't
on the widow's walk when Amy thought she saw me, but I do know that I would never neglect or forget or hurt Hannah, she thought. I have to understand Adam's concern, she warned herself, but he must realize that I will
not
have a baby-sitter reporting about me to his old buddy Elaine.

That resolve firmly made, it was easier to settle back
into bed, and when Adam's arm crept around her, she did not pull away.

*   *   *

At eight o'clock Adam went out for fresh bagels and the newspapers. As they ate and sipped coffee, Menley was aware that they were both trying to put aside the last vestiges of tension. She knew that when he left for New York this afternoon, neither one of them wanted to have the remnants of a quarrel still hanging between them.

He offered her her pick of the newspapers.

She smiled. “You know you want to start with
The New York Times.”

“Well, maybe.”

“That's fine.” She opened the first section of the
Cape Cod Times
and a moment later said, “Oh boy, look at this.” She slid the paper across the table.

Adam scanned the story she was pointing to, then jumped up. “Damn it! They're really gunning for Scott. Right now there must be a hell of a lot of pressure on the DA to call for a grand jury.”

“Poor Scott. Do you think there's a chance they'd actually indict him?”

“I think the Carpenter family is howling for blood, and they've got plenty of pull. I've got to talk to him.”

Hannah had had enough of the playpen. Menley picked her up, held her on her lap and gave her the end of a bagel to gnaw on. “Feels good, doesn't it?” she asked. “I think you've got a couple of teeth on the way.”

Adam was holding the phone. “Covey's not home and he didn't leave his machine on. He should know enough to keep in touch with me. He has to have seen the paper.”

“Unless he went fishing early,” Menley suggested.

“Well, if he did, I hope there's nothing in his house that the police will find interesting. You can bet your
boots that before the day is over some judge will be signing a search warrant.” He slammed down the receiver. “Damn!”

Then he shook his head and walked over to her. “Listen, bad enough I have to go to New York. There's nothing I can do until Covey calls me, so let's not waste our time. You girls game for the beach?”

“Sure. We'll get dressed.”

Menley was wearing a flowered cotton robe. Adam smiled down at her. “You look about eighteen,” he commented. He smoothed her hair, then rested his hand on her cheek. “You're an awfully pretty lady, Menley McCarthy Nichols.”

Menley's heart melted. One of the good moments, she thought—the kind I used to take for granted. I love him so much.

But then Adam asked, “What time did you say Amy is coming?”

She had planned to tell him this morning that this would be Amy's last day, but she didn't want to start a quarrel. Not now. “I asked her to be here around two,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I'll work on the book this afternoon after I come back from the airport. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Jan Paley found some interesting facts about Captain Andrew Freeman. She's dropping in around four.”

“That's great,” he said, stroking her head. She knew Adam's enthusiastic reaction was an indication of his desire to have her surrounded by people.

Just don't suggest that I ask Jan to stay the night, she thought bitterly, clutching the baby as she pushed his hand away and got up.

S
cott Covey did not realize how deeply the meeting with Adam the previous day had upset him until he took the boat out early Tuesday morning. The word was that the blues were running off Sandy Point. When the sun rose at 6:00
A.M
. he was anchored in the location where they'd supposedly been spotted.

As he sat patiently holding the rod, Scott forced himself to think of the warnings Adam Nichols had given him. And Adam had said he was going to have his own investigator on him to find any “blemishes” he might have in his background.

It occurred to him that he had not spoken to his father and stepmother in five years. It's not my fault, he thought. They moved to San Mateo; her family is all around, and when I go out there's no room for me to stay overnight. But there might be questions about why his family had not come to either the wedding reception or the funeral service. He decided to call his father and ask for his support.

It was another beautiful August day in a string of sunny, low-humidity days. The horizon was dotted with boats ranging in size from dinghys to yachts.

Vivian had wanted a sailboat. “I just bought this one so I could get used to handling a boat on my
own,” she'd explained. “That's why I called it
Viv's Toy.”

Now, riding in the boat with that name painted on the side, he felt weighted down. When he'd been walking down the dock this morning, Scott had seen several men standing next to the boat, looking at it and talking quietly. Speculating about the accident, no doubt.

As soon as this was settled, he'd change the name. No. Better than that. He'd sell the boat.

A strong tug on his line brought him sharply back to the present. He had a big one to land.

Twenty minutes later a thirty-two-pound striped bass was thrashing wildly on the deck.

Perspiration streaming from his forehead, Scott observed its dying struggle. Then revulsion seized him. He cut the line, managed to get a grip on the flailing fish and threw it back into the ocean. He had no stomach for fishing today, he decided, and headed for home.

On impulse Scott went to Clancy's in Dennisport for lunch. It was a cheerful, gregarious place, and he felt the need to be in the company of a lot of other people. He sat at the bar and ordered a beer and a hamburger. Several times he noticed the glances other people directed at him.

When the stools next to him were vacated, two attractive young women grabbed them. They quickly opened up a conversation by explaining that this was their first visit to the Cape and asked him if he could tell them the fun places to go.

Scott swallowed the last of his hamburger. “You're in one of the best,” he said pleasantly and signaled for his bill. That's all I need, he thought. With my luck Sprague will come waltzing in and see me talking to these girls.

At least tonight he'd be able to relax. Elaine Atkins
and her boyfriend had invited him to dinner at the Captain's Table in Hyannis. They were bringing Menley Nichols too, and she'd been genuinely kind to him.

On the way home he decided to stop for a paper. He tossed it on the seat beside him and did not open it until he was in the house. That was when he saw the front page headline:
CARPENTER FAMILY DEMANDS ANSWERS.

“Oh, Christ,” he murmured and rushed to the phone. His call was to Adam Nichols, but there was no answer.

An hour later the front doorbell pealed. He went to the door and opened it. A half-dozen grim-faced men were standing there. Scott only recognized one of them, the detective from Chatham who'd questioned him earlier.

In a daze he saw a piece of paper waved before him, then heard the frightening words, “We have a search warrant for these premises.”

M
enley got back from dropping Adam at the airport at quarter of two. The phone was ringing as she opened the door, and still clutching Hannah in one arm, she rushed to answer it.

It was her mother calling from Ireland. After the first joyous exchange, she found herself trying to reassure her mother that all was well. “What do you mean you have a feeling that something's wrong, Mom? That's crazy. The baby's great . . . We're having a wonderful time . . . The house we've rented is fascinating . . . We're even thinking of buying it . . . Weather's wonderful . . . Tell me about Ireland. How's the itinerary I made out for you?”

She had been to Ireland a half-dozen times on writing assignments and had helped plan her mother's trip. It was a relief to hear that the arrangements were highly satisfactory. “And how are Phyllis and Jack enjoying it?”

“They're having a great time,” her mother said. Then she lowered her voice, adding, “Needless to say Phyl is hell-bent on looking up her family tree. We spent two days in Boyle while she was going through old county records. But score one for her. She did locate her great-grandfather's farm in Ballymote.”

“I never doubted she would,” Menley said, laughing, then tried to persuade Hannah to coo and gurgle for Grandma.

Before the conversation ended, Menley again assured her mother that she was feeling fine, that she'd hardly had a trace of PTSD.

“And wouldn't it be nice if that were true?” she asked Hannah ruefully when she hung up the phone.

Amy arrived a few minutes later. Menley greeted her coolly and knew Amy was perceptive enough to pick up the change in her attitude.

While Amy put Hannah in her carriage and took her outside, Menley settled down to the Sprague files. A note Phoebe Sprague had written about the meeting house built in 1700 intrigued her. After the building statistics—”20 ft by 32 and 13 feet in the walls,” the names of the men who were appointed to “get the
timber and frame the house,” “to bring boards and planks” and “to buy more finishing”—Mrs. Sprague had written. “Nickquenum (Remember House) was much larger than the meeting house, which probably caused a great deal of discontent in the town. People were undoubtedly ready to believe the worst of Mehitabel Freeman.”

Then in what was clearly a later memo she had penciled in, “Tobias Knight,” followed by a question mark.

The builder. What was the question about him? Menley wondered.

Shortly before three an agitated Scott Covey phoned, looking for Adam. The police had arrived with a search warrant. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do to stop them.

“Adam tried to reach you this morning,” Menley said, and gave him Adam's New York office number. “I do know this,” she told him, “once a judge issues a warrant, no lawyer can get it canceled, but it can be challenged later in court.” Then she added softly, “I'm so sorry, Scott.”

Jan Paley arrived promptly at four. Menley had the feeling of being on firm ground when she greeted the handsome older woman. “It's so kind of you to do research for me.”