Remember Me (19 page)

“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.”

H
enry 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 newspaper.

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.”

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.

M
enley'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.