Remember Me

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Once in the house, however, the girl gave a different impression. She introduced herself, then went right over to the baby, who was in the small daytime crib they’d set up for her in the kitchen. “Hi, Hannah.” She moved her hand gently until Hannah grabbed at her finger. “Good girl. You’ve got some grip. Are you going to be my buddy?”

  Menley and Adam exchanged glances. The affection seemed genuine. After a few minutes of talking with Amy, Menley felt that, if anything, Elaine had understated the girl’s expertise. She’d been baby-sitting since she was thirteen and most recently had stayed with a family with year-old twins. She was planning to be a nursery school teacher.

  They agreed that she would come in for several afternoons a week, to help out while Menley was doing research for her writing projects, and occasionally would stay for the evening if they wanted to go out for dinner.

  As the girl was leaving, Menley said, “I’m so glad Elaine suggested you, Amy. Now do you have any questions for me?”

  “Yes . . . I . . . no, never mind.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, honest, nothing.”

  When she was well out of earshot, Adam said quietly, “That kid is afraid of something.”

  10

  Henry Sprague sat on the couch in the sunroom, the photo album on his lap. Phoebe was beside him, seemingly attentive. He was pointing out pictures to her. “This is the day we took the kids to see the Plymouth Rock for the first time. At the rock you told them the story of the pilgrims landing. They were only six and eight then, but they were fascinated. You always made history sound like an adventure story.”

  He glanced at her. There was no hint of recognition in her eyes, but she nodded, anxious to please him. It had been a rough night. He’d awakened at two to find Phoebe’s side of the bed empty. Heartsick, he’d rushed to see if she’d gotten out of the house again. Even though he’d put special locks on the doors, she had somehow managed to leave through the kitchen window last week. He’d reached her just as she was about to start the car.

  Last night she’d been in the kitchen with the kettle on and one of the gas jets open.

  Yesterday he had heard from the nursing home. There would be an opening on September first. “Please reserve it for my wife,” he had told them miserably.

  “What nice children,” Phoebe said. “What are their names?”

  “Richard and Joan.”

  “Are they all grown up?”

  “Yes. Richard is forty-three. He lives in Seattle with his wife and boys. Joan is forty-one, and she lives in Maine with her husband and daughter. You have three grandchildren, dear.”

  “I don’t want to see any more pictures. I’m hungry.”

  One of the effects of the disease was that her brain sent false signals to her senses. “You had breakfast just a few minutes ago, Phoebe.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Her voice became stubborn.

  “All right. Let’s go in and fix something for you.” As they got up, he put his arm around her. He’d always been proud of her tall, elegant body, the way she held her head, the poised warmth that emanated from her. I wish we could have just one more day the way it used to be, he thought.

  As Phoebe hungrily ate a roll and gulped milk, he told her that they were having company. “A man named Nat Coogan. It’s business.”

  There was no use trying to explain to Phoebe that Coogan was a detective who was coming to talk to him about Vivian Carpenter Covey.

  * * *

  As Nat drove past Vivian Carpenter’s house, he studied it carefully. It was vintage Cape, the kind of house that had been added to and expanded over the years so that now it rambled agreeably along the property. Surrounded by blue and purple hydrangeas, impatiens spilling from the window boxes, it was a postcard-perfect residence, although he knew that in all likelihood the rooms were fairly small. Still, it was obviously well kept and on valuable property. According to the real estate agent, Elaine Atkins, Vivian and Scott Covey had been looking for a larger home for the family they planned to start.

  How much would this place go for, Nat wondered? Situated on Oyster Pond, maybe an acre of property? Half a million? Since Vivian’s will left everything to her husband, this would be another asset Scott Covey had inherited.

  The Sprague residence was the next house. Another very attractive place. This one was an authentic salt-box, probably built in the late eighteenth century. Nat had never met the Spragues but used to enjoy the articles Professor Phoebe Sprague wrote for the Cape Cod Times. They all had to do with legends from the early Cape. He hadn’t seen any new ones in recent years, however.

  When Henry Sprague answered the bell, invited him in and introduced him to his wife, Nat understood immediately why Phoebe Sprague was no longer contributing articles. Alzheimer’s, he thought, and with compassion became aware of the tired creases etched around Henry Sprague’s mouth, of the quiet pain in his eyes.

  He refused the offer for coffee. “I won’t be long. Just a few questions, sir. How well did you know Vivian Carpenter Covey?”

  Henry Sprague wanted to be kind. Painfully honest, he also did not want to dissemble. “As you probably know, Vivian bought that house three years ago. We introduced ourselves to her. You can see my wife is not well. Her problem was just beginning to become obvious at that time. Unfortunately, Vivian began to drop in on us constantly. She was taking a course in cooking and kept bringing over samples of food she had prepared. It got to the point where my wife was becoming very nervous. Vivian meant to be kind, but I finally had to ask her to stop visiting unless we specifically had plans to get together.”

  He paused and added, “Emotionally, Vivian was an extremely needy young woman.”

  Nat nodded. It fit in with what he had heard from others. “How well do you know Scott Covey?”

  “I’ve met him, of course. He and poor Vivian were married very quietly, I gather, but she did have a reception at home that we attended. That was in early May. Her family was there and so were a smattering of friends and other neighbors.”

  “What did you think of Scott Covey?”

  Henry Sprague avoided a direct answer. “Vivian was radiantly happy. I was pleased for her. Scott seemed very devoted.”

  “Have you seen much of them since then?”

  “Only from a distance. They seemed to go out on the boat quite a bit. Sometimes when we were all barbecuing in the back we’d exchange pleasantries.”

  “I see.” Nat sensed that Henry Sprague was holding something back. “Mr. Sprague, you’ve said that Covey seemed very devoted to his wife. Did you get the feeling he was honestly in love with her?”

  Sprague did not have a problem answering that question. “He certainly acted as though he was.”

  But there was more, and again Henry Sprague hesitated. He felt he might be guilty of simple gossip if he told the detective something that had happened in late June. He’d dropped Phoebe off at the hairdresser, and Vivian had been there as well, having her hair done. To kill time, he’d gone across the street to the Cheshire Pub, to have a beer and watch the Red Sox and Yankees game.

  Scott Covey had been sitting on a stool in the bar. Their eyes met, and Henry went over to greet him. He didn’t know why, but he had the impression that Covey was nervous. A moment later a flashy brunette in her late twenties came in. Covey had jumped up. “For heaven’s sake, Tina, what are you doing here?” he’d said. “I thought you had a run-through Tuesday afternoons.”

  She had looked at him dumbfounded but recovered quickly. “Scott, how nice to bump into you. No rehearsal today. I was supposed to meet some of the other kids from the show either here or at the Impudent Oyster. I’m late, so if they’re not here I’ll rush over there.”

  When she left, Scott told Henry that Tina was in the chorus of the musical currently at the Cape Playhouse. “Vivian and I went to opening night and started talking to her at the cast party in the Playhouse Restaurant,” he had explained carefully.

  Henry had ended
up having a sandwich and beer with Scott while they watched the game. At two-thirty Covey left. “Viv should be finished now,” he had said.

  But when Henry picked up Phoebe a half hour later, Covey was still in the reception area of the salon, waiting for his wife. When she finally came out, tremulously proud of the blond highlights in her hair, he had overheard Covey reassure her that he hadn’t minded waiting at all, that he and Henry had watched the game together over lunch. At the time Henry had wondered if Scott’s omission of the meeting with Tina had been deliberate.

  Maybe not, Henry thought now. Maybe he forgot because it simply wasn’t important to him. Maybe it had all been Henry’s imagination that Covey had seemed nervous that day. Don’t be a meddlesome gossip, he told himself as he sat with the detective. There’s no point in bringing this up.

  What aren’t you telling me? Nat wondered as he gave Henry Sprague his card.

  11

  Menley drove Adam to the Barnstable Airport. “You’re very grumpy,” she teased as she stopped at the drop-off area.

  A smile quickly cleared the frown from his face. “I admit it. I don’t want to have to go back and forth to New York. I don’t want to leave you and Hannah. I don’t want to leave the Cape.” He paused, “Let’s see, what else?”

  “Poor baby,” Menley said mockingly, taking his face between her hands. “We’ll miss you.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s really been a great couple of days, hasn’t it?”

  “Spectacular.”

  She straightened his tie. “I think I like you better in cutoffs and sandals.”

  “I like myself better. Men, are you sure you don’t want to have Amy stay overnight with you?”

  “Positive. Adam, please . . .”

  “Okay, sweetheart. I’ll call you tonight.” He leaned into the backseat and touched Hannah’s foot. “Stay out of trouble, Toots,” he told her.

  Hannah’s sunny if toothless grin followed him as with a final wave he disappeared into the terminal.

  After lunch, Adam had received an urgent call from his office. There was an emergency hearing scheduled to revoke the Potter woman’s bail. The prosecution claimed that she had made threats against her mother-in-law. Adam had expected to have at least ten days at the Cape before having to go back to New York overnight, but this seemed like a genuine emergency, and he decided it was necessary to handle it personally.

  Menley steered the car out of the airport, turned onto the rotary and followed the sign to Route 28. She came to the railroad crossing and felt icy perspiration form on her forehead. She stopped, then glanced fearfully both ways. A freight train was far down the tracks. It was not moving. The warning lights weren’t flashing. The gates were up. Even so for a moment she sat paralyzed, unable to move.

  The impatient beep of car horns behind her forced her to take action. She jammed her foot on the accelerator. The car leapt across the tracks. Then she had to hit the brake to avoid slamming into the car ahead. Oh God, she thought, help me, please. Hannah bounced in the car seat and began to cry.

  Menley pulled the car into the parking lot of a restaurant and drove to the most distant spot. There she stopped, got in the back and took Hannah from the car seat.

  She cradled the baby against her and they cried together.

  12

  Graham 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.

  13

  It 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.

  14

  He 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?”