Remember Me (23 page)

“Elaine was mad at her.”

Menley turned and looked at Amy. “Why was she mad at her?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Amy said hurriedly.

“Amy, I think you
do
know,” Menley said, sensing that this might be important.

“Well, it was just that Carrie Bell was scared that morning you arrived. She said she had heard footsteps upstairs, but there was no one there. Then, when she went into the nursery, the cradle was rocking by itself, or so she claimed. Elaine said that was ridiculous and she didn't want those kind of stories spread about the house, because it's for sale.”

“I see.” Menley tried not to sound excited. That's three of us she thought. Amy, Carrie Bell and me. “Do you know how I can reach Carrie?” she asked.

“Oh, sure. She's cleaned our house for years.”

Menley reached for a piece of paper and jotted down the number Amy rattled off. “I'm going to see if she can come over again, and I'll ask Elaine to cancel Hildy.”

Since it was still very cool, they agreed that Amy would bundle Hannah up and take her for a walk in the carriage. “Hannah likes to know what's going on,” Amy said, smiling.

And don't we all, Menley thought as she settled down at the table and reached again for the Mooncusser file. For a moment she stared reflectively into space. This morning Adam had not bothered to mince words. “Menley,” he had said, “I'm sure if you phone Dr. Kaufman you'll find she agrees with me. While you're having such shattering anxiety attacks and flashbacks I have to insist that Amy stay here with you and Hannah when I'm out.”

Menley remembered the effort with which she had bitten back an angry reply. Instead she had simply pointed out that it was her idea to have Amy with
them, so he didn't need to be so overbearing. Even so, Adam had watched until Amy's car came into the driveway, then he had rushed out to have a word with her. After that he had closeted himself in the library, preparing for the inquest. He left the house at twelve-thirty, saying he'd be back late in the afternoon.

He talked privately to Amy because he doesn't even trust me to keep my word, Menley thought. Then she forced those thoughts from her mind and determinedly settled down to work.

Before lunch she'd been trying to make sense of the Mooncusser file, preparing her own notes, which she'd culled from the data Phoebe Sprague had put together.

She reread those notes:

The fifteen miles of treacherous currents and blind channels and shifting shoals that were the Chatham coastline were the undoing of countless vessels. They foundered and broke apart in blizzards and storms or sailed into sandbars, wrecking their hulls and sinking in the violent waters.

“Mooncussers” was the name given to the wreckers, who would rush to loot the cargos and snare the spoils. They would sail their small boats to the dying ship, carrying pinch bars, saws and axes, and would strip it clean of cargo and lumber and fixtures. Barrels and trunks and household goods were hoisted over the sides onto the waiting craft.

Even men of the cloth were wreckers. Menley had come across Phoebe's notes about the minister who in the middle of his sermon looked out the window, saw a ship in distress and immediately informed his congregation of the fortuitous happening. “Start fair,”
he'd yelped and rushed out of the meeting room, followed closely by his fellow scavengers.

Another story Phoebe had noted was of the minister who, when handed a note about a sinking ship, ordered his parishioners to bow their heads in silent prayer, while he himself slipped out in search of plunder. Returning five hours later, his booty tucked away, he found his obedient, stiff-necked and weary congregation still in place.

Wonderful stories, Menley thought, but what have they got to do with Tobias Knight? She continued to read; an hour later she finally came to a reference to him. He was listed as denouncing “the plundering gangs who stripped clean the cargo of flour and rum from the beached schooner
Red Jacket,
depriving the Crown of its salvedge.”

Tobias was put in charge of that investigation. There was no mention of the success or failure of his mission.

But what is the connection to Mehitabel? Menley wondered. Certainly Captain Freeman wouldn't have been a wrecker.

And then she came upon another reference to Tobias Knight. In 1707 there was an election to replace him as selectman and assessor and to appoint Samuel Tucker to complete the building of the sheep pound that Knight had begun. The reason: “Tobias Knight no longer apeering in our midst to the greate disadvantage of the congregation.”

Phoebe Sprague had noted: “Probably the ‘greate disadvantage' was that they'd already paid him to build the pound. But what happened to him? No record of his death. Did he leave to avoid being pressed into service? ‘Queen Anne's War,' the French and Indian war, was being fought. Or was his disappearance tied to the Crown investigation that began two years earlier?”

The Crown investigation! Menley thought. That's a new twist. Tobias Knight must have been quite a character. He threw Mehitabel to the winds. He led the search to recover the spoils from the
Red Jacket,
which meant he was investigating his own townspeople, and then he disappeared, leaving the sheep pound unfinished.

She got up and glanced at the clock. It was half past two. Amy had been out alone with the baby for nearly two hours. Concerned, she jumped up, went to the kitchen door and was relieved to see the carriage just turning onto the dirt road that marked the beginning of the property.

Will I ever get to the point where I'm not overly worried about Hannah? she wondered.

Stop thinking like that, she cautioned herself. You haven't even glanced at the ocean since you got out of bed, she thought. Take a look at it. It always does something for you.

She walked from the keeping room to the main parlor and opened the front windows, relishing the blast of salt-filled air. Tossed by the sharp breeze, the water was a mass of whitecaps. Cool as she knew it must be on the beach, she found herself yearning to walk there and feel the water on her ankles. How had Mehitabel felt about this house? She could visualize the way she would write the story.

They returned from the China trip and found the house completed. They examined it, room by room, remarking with joy on the posts and beams and paneling, the fine arrangement on the fireplaces of the bricks Andrew had commissioned from West Barnstable, the pilasters and carving that surrounded the great front door, with its crosslike panels.

They'd delighted in the fanlight they had admired
in London, the way it cast lovely patterns over the entrance hall. Then they descended the steep slope to see their house as it would be observed from the beach.

“Tobias Knight be a fine builder,” Andrew said as they stood looking up. The water was lapping at Mehitabel's skirt. She gathered it up and stepped onto dry sand, commenting, “I would love to feel the water on my ankles.”

Andrew laughed. “A chill water it is, and you with child. I think it not advisable.”

*   *   *

“Mrs. Nichols, are you all right?”

Menley spun around. Amy was in the doorway, Hannah in her arms. “Oh, of course, I'm fine. Amy, you're going to have to forgive me. When I write or sketch, I'm in a different world.”

Amy smiled. “That's the way Professor Sprague used to describe writing when she visited my mother.”

“Your mother and Professor Sprague were friends? I didn't know that.”

“My mother and father belonged to a camera club. They were good amateur photographers. My father still is, of course. They met Professor Sprague through the club, and she and my mother got really friendly.” Amy's tone changed. “That's where my father met Elaine. She's a member too.”

Menley's throat went dry. Hannah was patting Amy's face. But she envisioned Amy looking different. Slimmer. Not as tall. Her blond hair darker, her face small and heart shaped. Her smile tender and sad as she kissed the top of the baby's head and rocked her in her arms. That was the way she would portray Mehitabel in the weeks between her baby's birth and the day she lost her.

Then Amy shivered. “It's really freezing cold in here, isn't it? Is it all right if I make a cup of tea?”

W
hen Adam arrived at Scott's house, he found him hosing down the garage. He frowned when he saw that Covey had been concentrating on an oil-stained area. “You're being very industrious,” he observed.

“Not really. I've been meaning to do this for a while. Viv took a course on car maintenance a couple of years ago and fancied herself a mechanic for a while. She had an old Caddy, and she liked to pump her own gas and change the oil.”

“Did the Caddy have an oil leak?” Adam asked quickly.

“I don't know whether it had a leak or if Viv was spilling half the oil. She always parked that car in this space. She bought the BMW after we were married.”

“I see. Do you happen to know if the police took any pictures of the garage floor when they were here?”

Scott looked startled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Detective Coogan was looking under Tina's car yesterday. It has an oil leak.”

Abruptly Scott turned off the hose and slammed it down. “Adam, can you understand what this is like
for me? I'm going nuts. I have to tell you that as soon as the inquest is over, I'm getting out of here. Let them think what they want. They will anyhow.”

Then he shook his head, as though clearing it. “Sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you. Come on inside. It's chilly out here. I thought August was supposed to be the best month of the year on the Cape.”

“Other than being cool today, I haven't seen any weather to object to so far,” Adam said mildly.

“Sorry again. Adam, I have to talk to you.” He turned abruptly and led the way into the house.

Adam refused the offer of a beer, and while Scott went to get one for himself, used the time to study the living room carefully. It looked as though it needed a good straightening, but that could have been the result of the search. The police were not famous for restoring the premises they had searched to pristine order.

But there was something else Adam noted, an emptiness about the room. There was nothing personal anywhere, no photographs, no books, no magazines. The furniture wasn't shabby, but it was neither attractive nor coordinated. Adam remembered that Elaine had told him Vivian had bought the place furnished. It didn't look as though she had done anything to put her stamp on it, and if Scott Covey's personality was reflected in the room, Adam certainly couldn't spot it.

He thought of the keeping room of Remember House. In the two weeks they had been there, Menley had given it an inviting atmosphere, and she'd done it effortlessly. Geraniums lined the windowsills. The outsized wooden salad bowl was heaped with fruit. She had lugged a battered rocker from the small parlor and set it by the fireplace. A wicker basket that had probably been used for carrying logs was serving as a container for magazines and newspapers.

Menley was a natural homemaker. Adam thought uncomfortably of how he had dashed out this morning
to warn Amy to stay with Menley until he got back. Menley wouldn't have sent Amy home, he told himself. She's just as concerned about those anxiety attacks as I am. She called Dr. Kaufman yesterday. She had even suggested having Amy in all day.

What was keeping Covey? How long did it take to pour a beer? And what in hell am I doing here? Adam asked himself. This is my vacation. My wife needs me and I let myself get talked into taking on this case.

He walked into the kitchen. “Any problem?”

Scott was sitting at the table, his arms folded, the beer untouched. “Adam,” he said tonelessly. “I haven't been straight with you.”

N
at Coogan decided it would be a good idea to pay a second visit to Fred Hendin. Armed with the information that the insurance investigator had shared with him, he arrived at Hendin's home at four-thirty.

Hendin's car was in the driveway. Nat was not delighted to see that Tina's green Toyota was parked behind it. On the other hand, it might be interesting to observe them together, he thought.

He sauntered up the walk and rang the bell. When Hendin came to the door, he was visibly displeased. “Did I forget we had an appointment?” he asked.

“We don't,” Nat said pleasantly. “Is it okay if I come in?”

Hendin stood aside. “It's not okay if you keep upsetting my girlfriend.”

Tina was sitting on the couch, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Why do you keep bothering me?” she demanded.

“I have no intention of bothering you, Tina,” Nat said evenly. “We're conducting an investigation into a possible homicide. When we ask questions, it's to get answers, not to harass people.”

“You're talking to people about me. You're looking at my car.” Fresh tears gushed from her eyes.

You're a lousy actress, Nat thought. This is show-and-tell for Fred's benefit. He glanced at Hendin and saw irritation and sympathy on his face. And it's working, he thought.

Hendin sat down beside Tina, and his work-roughened hand closed over hers. “What's this about the car?”

“Haven't you noticed that Tina has a fairly serious oil leak?”

“I noticed it. I'm giving Tina a new car for her birthday. That's in three weeks. No point wasting money fixing up the other one.”

“The floor of Scott Covey's garage has a pretty big oil stain,” Nat said. “It didn't come from the new BMW.”

“And it didn't come from my car,” Tina snapped, her eyes suddenly dry.

Hendin stood up. “Mr. Coogan, Tina told me there'd be an inquest. Covey's lawyer is coming to talk to me, and I'm going to tell him exactly what I'm telling you now, so listen good. Tina and I broke up last summer because she was seeing Covey. She dated a lot of guys over the winter, and that's not my business. We've been back together since last April, and
there hasn't been a night I haven't seen her, so don't try to make a big romance out of her bumping into Covey in that bar or stopping by his house to offer sympathy when his wife was missing.”