Remember Me

by Mary Higgins Clark

  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.

  August 10th

  46

  The 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.”

  “Why did she come to you? I mean, surely her family has lawyers.”

  “I’d done some work for one of her friends, who apparently was quite satisfied with me. And Vivian said at the time that she did not want to be represented by her family’s legal advisors. She asked my advice about which bank I would suggest she go to in order to open a safety deposit box. She wanted the name of a conservative broker with whom she could review her considerable stock portfolio. She asked my advice about her potential heirs.”

  “She wanted to make out a will?”

  “No, she specifically did not want to make one out. She wanted to know who would inherit in case of her death. I told her it would be her family.”

  “She was satisfied with that?” Nat asked.

  “She told me she didn’t want to leave it as a gift to them because they didn’t deserve it, but since there was no one in the world she gave a damn about, they might just as well have it de facto. Of course, all that changed when she met Covey.”

  “Did you urge her to have a prenuptial agreement?”

  “It was too late. She was already married. I did urge her to sign a more complex will. I pointed out that the way the will stood, her husband would inherit everything, and that she should write in provisions for unborn children. She said she’d face that issue when she became pregnant. I also urged her to consider the fact that if the marriage did fail, there were steps she should be aware of that would protect her assets.”

  Nat looked around the room. Paneled walls with a fine patina; law books stacked neatly on floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the mahogany desk. Handsomely framed English hunting scenes; an Oriental area rug. The overall effect was harmonious good taste, an appropriate background for Leonard Wells. Nat decided he liked this man.

  “Mr. Wells, did Vivian consult with you often?”

  “No. I do understand that she took my advice to keep only a relatively modest checking account in the local bank. She was satisfied with the securities expert I recommended and had quarterly meetings with him in Boston. She left the key to her safety deposit box in my office. When she occasionally came in to get it, we’d exchange pleasantries.”

  “Why did she leave her safety deposit box key here?” Nat asked.

  “Vivian tended to be careless. Last year she lost the key twice and had to pay a heavy replacement fee. Since the bank is right next door, she decided to make us custodians. While she was alive she was the only one with access. Since her death, of course, the contents have been taken out and listed, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Did Vivian call you three days before she died?”

  “Yes. The call came while I was on vacation.”

  “Do you know why she was contacting you?”

  “No, I don’t. She wasn’t looking for her key and would not speak to my associate. She left word for me to phone as soon as I returned. Unfortunately, by then she’d been missing two days.”

  “What was her manner when she spoke to your secretary? Did she seem upset?”

  “Vivian was always upset if people she wanted to see weren’t readily available to her.”

  Not much help there, Nat thought. Then he asked, “Did you ever meet Scott Covey, Mr. Wells?”

  “Only once. At the reading of the will.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “My opinion, of course, is just that. Prior to meeting him, I’d already decided in my own mind that he was a gold digger who had charmed a vulnerable, highly emotional young woman. I still feel that it is a disgrace that an entire Carpenter fortune will be enjoyed by a stranger. There are plenty of distant Carpenter cousins who could use a windfall. I confess that afterward I felt differently. I was most favorably impressed by Scott Covey. He seemed genuinely heartsick about his wife’s death. And unless he’s a magnificient actor, he was stunned to realize the extent of her fortune.”

  47

  Henry Sprague had a bad taste in his mouth. Tuesday afternoon he’d observed the police cars when they pulled up to Scott Covey’s driveway. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, he had watched from the side window as what he assumed to be a search warrant was handed to Covey. Later, when he and Phoebe were sitting on the deck, he had been uncomfortably aware of Covey sitting on his deck, his posture reflecting dejection and despair.

  If it weren’t for seeing that Tina woman in the Cheshire Pub, I wouldn’t have one single reason to suspect Scott Covey, Henry had reminded himself during the sleepless night.

  He remembered back to the first time he had met Phoebe. She had been a doctoral candidate at Yale. He had an M.B.A. from Amos Tuck and was in the family import-export business. From the minute he laid eyes on her, the other girls he had dated became unimportant. One of them, her name was Kay, had really been hurt and had kept calling him.

  Suppose I had agreed to see Kay after I was married, just to talk it out, and someone misinterpreted the meeting? Henry thought. Could that be the case Here?

  On Wednesday morning, he knew what he had to do. Betty, their longtime cleaning woman, was there, and he knew he could trust her to keep an eye on Phoebe.

  Sensing that he might be told to stay home, he did not phone Scott. Instead at ten o’clock he walked across the lawn and rang the back doorbell. Through the screen he could see Scott, seated at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspa
per.

  Henry reminded himself that Covey had no reason to look pleased when he realized who his visitor was.

  He came to the door but did not open it. “What do you want, Mr. Sprague?”

  Henry did not mince words. “I feel I owe you an apology.”

  Covey was wearing a sports shirt, khaki shorts and leather thongs. His dark blond hair was damp, as though he’d just showered. His frown disappeared. “Why don’t you come in?”

  Without asking, he got another mug from the cabinet and poured coffee. “Vivian told me that you’re a coffee-holic.”

  It was good, even excellent, coffee, Henry was pleased to note. He took the seat opposite Covey at the small table and sipped quietly for a few moments. Then, choosing his words carefully, he tried to convey to Scott his regret that he had told the detective about meeting Tina that afternoon in the pub.

  He liked the fact that Covey did not demur. “Look, Mr. Sprague, I understand that you did what you felt you had to do. I also understand where the police are coming from and the attitude of Viv’s family and friends. I do have to point out, Viv didn’t have many friends who really cared about her. I’m just glad if you can begin to realize it’s tough as hell to be missing my wife so much and at the same time have people treat me like a murderer.”

  “Yes, I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  “You know what’s really scary?” Scott asked. “It’s the way the Carpenters are stirring everyone up; there’s a damn good chance I’ll be indicted for murder.”

  Henry stood up. “I’ve got to get back. If there’s anything I can do to help you, count on me. I should not have allowed myself to be talked into gossiping. I can promise you this: If I’m asked to testify, I’ll say loud and clear that from the day you and Vivian were married, I witnessed the transformation of a very unhappy young woman.”

  “That’s all I ask of you, sir,” Scott Covey said. “If everyone would tell the simple truth, I’d be all right.”

  “Henry.”