Remember Me

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Both men turned as Phoebe opened the screen door and walked in. She looked around, her eyes clouded. “Did I tell you about Tobias Knight?” she asked vaguely.

  “Phoebe . . . Phoebe . . .” Jan Paley was a few steps behind her. “Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. I dropped by for a minute and I told Betty to go ahead with her work, that I’d sit with Phoebe. I turned my back and . . .”

  “I understand,” Henry said. “Come along, dear.” He shook Scott’s hand reassuringly, then put his arm around his wife and patiently led her home.

  48

  Menley’s frantic search of the downstairs rooms had not revealed where Bobby’s voice was coming from. Finally Hannah’s wails had penetrated her consciousness, and she had made her way back to the nursery. By then Hannah’s sobs had become gulping hiccups.

  “Oh, sweet baby,” Menley had murmured, shocked into awareness that Hannah had been crying for a long time. She had picked up her daughter, wrapped the covers around her and dropped onto the bed opposite the crib.

  Crawling under the quilt, she had slid her shoulder strap down and put the baby’s lips to her breast. She had not been able to nurse, but her breast pulsated as the tiny lips sucked at her nipple. Finally the hiccups had subsided, and Hannah had slept contentedly in her arms.

  She wanted to keep the baby with her, but exhaustion was a cloud that pushed Menley into a stuporlike state. As she had done a few days ago, she placed a pillow in the cradle, laid Hannah on it, tucked the blankets around her, and fell into a dead sleep herself, her hand on the cradle, one tiny finger encircling her thumb.

  * * *

  The ringing of the phone woke her at eight o’clock. Hannah was still asleep, she noted, as she rushed to the master bedroom to answer it.

  It was Adam.

  “Don’t tell me you and Hannah are still in bed? How come she never sleeps late for me?”

  He was joking. Menley knew it. The tone of his voice was amused and affectionate. Then why was she so quick to look for a double meaning in everything he said?

  “You always bragged about the fresh ocean air,” she said. “Looks as though Hannah has started to believe you.” She thought about the dinner. “Adam, I had a lovely time last night.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. I was afraid to ask.”

  Just as I suspected, Menley thought.

  “Anyone else there besides you and Elaine and John?”

  “Scott Covey.”

  “That was nice. I told him in no uncertain terms that I needed to be able to reach him. Did he talk about the search?”

  “Only that it was intrusive but not worrisome.”

  “Good. How are you doing, honey?”

  I’m doing just fine, Menley thought. I imagined I heard a train roar through this house. I imagined I heard my dead child calling me. And I let Hannah scream for half an hour while I searched for him.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re holding something back?”

  “Because you’re a good lawyer, trained to look for hidden meanings.” She forced a laugh.

  “No episodes?”

  “I said I’m fine.” She tried not to sound irritated or panicky. Adam could always see through her. She tried to change the subject. “Dinner really was pleasant, but Adam, whenever John utters the words, ‘That reminds me of a story,’ run for the hills. He does go on and on.”

  Adam chuckled. “ ’Laine must be in love. Otherwise she wouldn’t put up with it. The airport at five?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  After Hannah had been bathed and fed and was temporarily content in the keeping-room playpen, Menley called the psychiatrist in New York who was treating her for post-traumatic stress disorder. “I’m in a bit of trouble,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Carefully choosing her words, she told Dr. Kaufman about waking up, imagining she was hearing the sound of the train, thinking she’d heard Bobby calling.

  “And you decided not to pick up Hannah when she was crying?”

  She’s trying to find out if I was afraid I’d hurt the baby, Menley thought. “I was trembling so much I was afraid that if I picked her up, I’d drop her.”

  “Was she crying?”

  “Screaming.”

  “Did that upset you very much, Menley?”

  She hesitated, then whispered, “Yes, it did. I wanted her to stop.”

  “I see. I think we’d better increase your medication. I reduced it last week, and it may have been too soon. I’ll have to Express Mail it to you. I can’t prescribe out of state over the phone.”

  I could have her send it to Adam’s office, Menley thought. He could bring it up. But I don’t want Adam to know I spoke to the doctor. “I don’t know if I gave you the address here,” she said calmly.

  When she hung up the phone, she went over to the table. Yesterday, after Jan Paley left, she’d glanced quickly through Phoebe Sprague’s file of pictures, looking for one of Captain Andrew Freeman. Now she spent the next several hours going through all the files specifically looking for a picture. But she couldn’t find one.

  She compared her drawing with the one Jan had brought. Feature for feature, it was a perfect match. The only difference was that the sketch from the Brewster Library showed the captain at the wheel of his ship. How did I know what he looked like? she wondered again.

  She reached for her sketchpad. A mental image of Mehitabel was filling her mind, demanding to be released. Wind-blown, shoulder-length brown hair; a delicate heart-shaped face; wide, dark eyes; small hands and feet; smiling lips; a blue linen gown with long sleeves, a high neck and a lace bib, the skirt billowing to the side.

  She drew with swift, sure strokes, her trained fingers skillfully transferring the image to paper. When she was finished she held it against the sketch Jan had brought and realized what she had done.

  In the Brewster Library sketch, a trace of Mehitabel’s flowing skirt flared out behind the figure of the captain.

  Menley grabbed her magnifying glass. The small marks on Andrew Freeman’s sleeve as shown in the Brewster drawing were the tips of fingers—Mehitabel’s fingers. Had she been standing behind her husband on his ship when the unknown artist sketched him nearly three hundred years ago? Did she look anything like the way I visualized her? Menley wondered.

  Suddenly frightened, she buried the three sketches in the bottom of one of the files, picked up Hannah and walked outside into the sunlight.

  Hannah cooed and pulled her mother’s hair, and as Menley gently disentangled the small fingers, a thought came to her: last night when I woke up to the roaring of the train, Hannah was screaming.

  “Did the train wake you up too?” she cried. “Was that why you were so frightened? Oh, Hannah, what is happening to us? What kind of craziness are you picking up from me?”

  49

  District attorney Robert Shore conducted the meeting in the conference room of his offices in the Barnstable County Courthouse. He sat at the head of the table, the medical examiner, detectives and expert witnesses along the sides. He had placed Nat Coogan at the opposite end, a tribute to the extensive work the detective had done on the case.

  “What have we got?” Shore asked and nodded to Nat to begin laying out his facts.

  Step by step, Nat presented the facts he had assembled.

  The medical examiner was next. “The body was mutilated by marine scavengers. You are particularly interested in the condition of her hands. The fingertips of both hands were gone, which is to be expected. In a drowning it’s one of the first places crabs will attack. The rest of the fingers of the left hand are intact. A narrow gold band, her wedding ring, was on the ring finger.”

  He held up a picture taken at the autopsy. “The right hand tells a different story. Besides the missing fingertips, the ring finger had been eaten to the bone between the knuckle and hand. That suggests it had suffered a previous trauma that caused
the blood to rise to the surface and attract the scavengers.”

  “The husband claimed that the morning of the day she died, Vivian had been twisting and turning her emerald to get it off,” Nat said. “Would that have caused the trauma?”

  “Yes, but she must have been yanking at it mighty hard.”

  District Attorney Shore took the picture from the medical examiner. “The husband admits she was wearing the emerald on the boat but claims she must have switched it to the ring finger of her left hand. If it were loose, could it have slipped off in the water?”

  “Certainly. But it never would have slipped off past the knuckle of the right hand. But here’s something else.” The medical examiner held up another autopsy photo. “There isn’t much of her right ankle left, but there are some marks consistent with rope burn. It’s possible she was tied up at some point and even dragged for a considerable distance.”

  Shore leaned forward. “Deliberately?”

  “Impossible to tell.”

  “Let’s talk about the alcohol content in her body.”

  “Between the vitreous humor, or in layman’s words, eye fluid, and the blood, we’ve ascertained she’d consumed the equivalent of three glasses of wine. She’d have been listed as ‘under the influence’ if she’d been driving.”

  “In other words,” Shore said, “she had no business scuba diving in that condition, but there’s no law against it.”

  The two expert witnesses from the Coast Guard group in Woods Hole were next. One was carrying maritime charts, which he set up on a stand. With the aid of a pointer, he presented his findings. “If she disappeared here”—he indicated a spot a mile from Monomoy Island—“her body should have been washed toward the Vineyard and located somewhere around here.” Again he pointed. “The other alternative is that, given the violent currents caused by the squall, she might have been washed into the Monomoy shore. One place she would not have been is where she was found, in Stage Harbor. Unless,” he concluded, “unless she got caught in a fishing net and dragged there, which is also possible.”

  The expert on diving equipment spread out the gear Vivian Carpenter had been wearing the day of her death. “This stuff was pretty worn,” he commented. “Wasn’t she supposed to be rich?”

  “I think I can speak to that,” Nat said. “Vivian gave her husband new diving gear as a wedding present. His story is that she wanted to use his old rig to see if she liked diving. If she did, she’d buy a top-of-the-line set like his.”

  “Reasonable, I guess.”

  Tina’s possible connection to Scott was discussed, with the district attorney playing devil’s advocate. “Tina’s engaged now?” he asked.

  “Yes, to her old boyfriend,” Nat said, then told them of his impression of Fred Hendin. Next he talked about the oil on the garage floor at Scott Covey’s house.

  “Pretty nebulous as evidence, I’d say,” he admitted. “A good defense attorney—and Adam Nichols is tops—could blow that away.”

  The records taken from the Covey home were laid out. “Covey sure did his homework,” Shore grunted. “There’s nothing there. But what about Vivian? Where did she keep all her personal records?”

  “In her safety deposit box,” Nat said.

  “And the husband wasn’t a signatory on it?”

  “No.”

  At the conclusion of the meeting, there was reluctant agreement that, based on the present facts, it would be almost impossible to get a grand jury to hand up an indictment of Scott Covey.

  “I’m going to call Judge Marron in Orleans and ask him to schedule an inquest,” Shore decided. “That way all the facts will be publicly aired. If he thinks we’ve got enough, he’ll make a finding of evidence of criminal negligence or foul play and then we convene the grand jury.”

  He stretched. “Gentlemen, an informal poll. Forget what’s admissible or not admissible for a jury. If you were voting innocent or guilty, how say you?”

  He went around the table. One by one they quietly answered. “Guilty . . . Guilty . . . Guilty . . . Guilty . . . Guilty . . . Guilty . . . Guilty.”

  “Guilty,” Shore agreed decisively. “It’s unanimous. We may not be able to prove it yet, but we all believe Scott Covey is a murderer.”

  50

  Adam’s client, Susan Potter, wept quietly as she sat opposite him in his office at the Park Avenue law firm of Nichols, Strand and Miller. Twenty-eight years old, slightly plump, with dark red hair and blue-green eyes, she would have been very attractive if her features were not distorted by fear and stress.

  Convicted of manslaughter in the death of her husband, she had been granted a new trial through Adam’s appeal. It would begin in September.

  “I just don’t feel as though I can go through it again,” she said. “I’m so grateful to be out of prison, but the thought that I might have to go back . . .”

  “You won’t,” Adam told her. “But Susan, get this straight—have no contact with Kurt’s family. Slam the phone down if his parents call you. Their goal is to get you to say something provocative, something that they can even loosely interpret as a threat.”

  “I know.” She stood up to go. “You’re on vacation and this is the second time you’ve come down because of my case. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”

  “When we get you off for good is when I’ll accept your words of appreciation.” Adam walked around his desk and escorted her to the door.

  As he opened it, she looked up at him. “I thank God every day of my life that you’re handling my defense.”

  Adam saw the hero worship in her eyes. “Keep your chin up, Susan,” he said matter-of-factly.

  His fifty-year-old secretary, Rhoda, was in the outer office. She followed him back into his private room. “Honest to God, Adam, you do turn the ladies on. All your female clients end up falling in love with you.”

  “Come on, Rhoda. A lawyer is like a psychiatrist. Most patients fall in love with their shrink for a while. It’s the arm-to-lean-on syndrome.”

  His words echoed in his ears as he thought about Menley. She had suffered another anxiety attack; he was sure of it. He could pick up the stress in her voice as clearly as someone with perfect musical pitch could detect an off-key note. It was part of his training, part of the reason he was a successful lawyer. But why wouldn’t she talk about it? How bad had the attack—or attacks—been? he wondered.

  The widow’s walk. The only access to that precarious perch was a narrow ladder. Suppose she tried to carry Hannah up there and became dizzy. Suppose she dropped the baby.

  Adam felt his throat close. The memory of Menley’s face as she looked down at Bobby in the casket haunted him. Menley’s sanity would never survive losing Hannah.

  He knew what he had to do. Reluctantly he phoned his wife’s psychiatrist. His heart sank when Dr. Kaufman said, “Oh, Adam, I was debating whether to call you. I didn’t realize you were in town. When are you going back to the Cape?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Then I’ll send Menley’s new prescription over to you to take up to her.”

  “When were you talking to Menley?” he asked.

  “Today.” Dr. Kaufman’s tone changed. “You didn’t know that? Adam, why are you calling me?”

  He told her that he was afraid Menley was having episodes of PTSD that she was not admitting to him. The doctor did not comment.

  Then Adam told her how the baby-sitter had seen Menley on the widow’s walk, and that Menley denied being there.

  “Did she have Hannah with her?”

  “No. The baby was with the sitter.”

  There was a pause. Then, speaking carefully, the doctor said, “Adam, I don’t think Menley should be alone with Hannah, and I do think you should bring her back to New York. I want to admit her to the hospital for a little while. It’s better to be safe. We don’t need any more tragedies in your family.”

  51

  Amy had spent the day at Nauset Beach with her friends. On the one hand
it had been fun to be with them. On the other, however, she had been saving her baby-sitting money toward the purchase of a new car to use at college, and she was still short of having the amount she needed. Her father had promised that he would pay half, but she had to make up the difference.

  “I know I could give it to you,” her father often told her, “but remember what your mother used to say: ‘You appreciate what you work for.’ ”

  Amy did indeed remember. She remembered everything her mother said. Mom hadn’t been at all like Elaine, Amy thought. She’d been what most people would call plain: no makeup, no high-fashion clothes, no airs. But she’d been real. Amy remembered how when Dad told those long-winded stories, she’d say, with affection, “John, dear, get to the point.” She didn’t laugh the way Elaine did, giggling uncontrollably, acting like he was Robin Williams or something.

  Yesterday Amy had known that Mrs. Nichols was angry at her. She realized now she shouldn’t have told her father about seeing Mrs. Nichols on the widow’s walk, and about Mrs. Nichols denying she had been there. Of course, her father had told Elaine, who told Mr. Nichols; she had been in the room when Elaine phoned him.

  But one thing had been bothering Amy. When she had been with her in the house yesterday, Mrs. Nichols had been wearing shorts and a white cotton shirt. But in that impression of her on the widow’s walk, she’d been wearing some sort of long dress.

  It had startled Amy and made her wonder suddenly if maybe Mrs. Nichols was a little crazy. She’d heard Elaine tell her father that Mrs. Nichols was probably in the midst of a nervous breakdown.

  But what if Mrs. Nichols was right, that it was only an optical illusion because of the metal on the chimney? When she thought about it, Amy realized that only a few minutes after she thought she saw that figure, Mrs. Nichols came out of the house dressed in the shorts and tee shirt.

  The whole thing was kind of scary and spooky, Amy thought. Or maybe I’ve just heard too many stories about Remember House, and just like Carrie Bell, I think I’m seeing things.