Remember Me (8 page)

The baby turned her head and together they looked at the house behind them. “There's still a load of work to do,” Menley said. “But it would be fun to really restore it to the way it used to be. I guess it was just the two of us being here alone that made the dream seem so real when I was waking up. Don't you agree?”

Hannah wriggled impatiently, and her lip drooped. “Okay, you're getting tired,” Menley said. “God, you're a crabby kid.” She started back toward the house, then paused and studied it again. “It has a wonderful sheltering look, doesn't it?” she murmured.

She felt suddenly lighthearted, hopeful. Adam would be home this afternoon and their vacation could get back on track. Except . . .

Except if Adam decides to represent Scott Covey, she thought. Adam never does anything halfheartedly. It would take a lot of his time. Even so I hope he does represent him. She remembered the horror when, two weeks after Bobby's funeral, Adam had received a phone call. The assistant district attorney was considering prosecuting Menley for reckless manslaughter.

“He said that you've had a couple of speeding tickets. He thinks he can prove that you ignored the warning signal at the crossing because you were racing to beat the train.” Then Adam's face had become grim. “Don't worry, honey. He won't get to first base.” The D.A. had backed off when Adam produced a formidable list of other fatal accidents at that crossing.

Elaine had told them that one of the reasons Scott Covey was being judged harshly was because some people said he should have known about the squall.

Menley thought, I don't care if it does cut into our vacation. Covey needs help just as I did.

T
he Carpenter summer home in Osterville was not visible from the road. As Detective Nat Coogan drove through the gates and along the wide driveway, he observed the manicured lawn and flower beds. I'm suitably impressed, he thought. Big, big bucks, but old money. Nothing flamboyant.

He stopped in front of the house. It was an old Victorian mansion with a wide porch and gingerbread latticework. The unpainted shakes had weathered to a mellow gray, but the shutters and window frames gleamed snowy white in the afternoon sun.

When he had phoned this morning asking for an
interview, he had been somewhat surprised at how readily Vivian Carpenter's father had agreed to see him.

“Do you want to come today, Detective Coogan? We were planning to play golf this afternoon but there's plenty of time for that.”

It was not the reaction Nat had expected. The Carpenters did not have the reputation of being accessible people. He had anticipated a frosty response, a demand to know why he wanted to see them.

Interesting, he thought.

A maid led him to the sunporch at the back of the house where Graham and Anne Carpenter were seated on brightly cushioned wicker chairs, sipping iced tea. At the funeral service, Nat had gotten the impression that these were cold people. The only tears he had seen shed for Vivian Carpenter Covey had been her husband's. Looking at the couple in front of him, he was embarrassed to realize how wrong he'd been. Both her parents' patrician faces were visibly strained, their expressions filled with sadness.

They greeted him quietly, offered iced tea or whatever beverage he preferred. On his refusal, Graham Carpenter came directly to the point. “You're not here to offer condolences, Mr. Coogan.”

Nat had chosen a straight-backed chair. He leaned forward, his hands linked, a habit his colleagues would have recognized as his unconscious posture when he felt he was onto something. “I do offer condolences, but you're right, Mr. Carpenter. That is not the reason I'm here. I'm going to be very blunt. I'm not satisfied that your daughter's death was an accident, and until I am satisfied I'm going to be seeing a lot of people and asking a lot of questions.”

It was as though he had jolted them with a live wire. The lethargy disappeared from their expressions. Graham
Carpenter looked at his wife, “Anne, I told you . . .”

She nodded. “I didn't want to believe . . .”

“What didn't you want to believe, Mrs. Carpenter?” Nat asked quickly.

They described for him their reasons for being suspicious of their son-in-law, but Coogan found them disappointing. “I understand your feelings about not finding a picture of your daughter anywhere in her home,” he told them, “but it's been my experience that after this kind of tragedy, people react differently. Some will bring out every picture they can find of the person they've lost, while others will immediately store or even destroy pictures and mementos, give away the clothes, sell the car of the deceased, even change homes. It's almost as though they believe removing any reminder will make it easier to get over the pain.”

He tried a new tack. “You met Scott Covey after your daughter married him. Since he was a stranger, you must have been concerned. By any chance did you investigate his background?”

Graham Carpenter nodded. “Yes, I did. Not a very in-depth investigation, but everything he told us was true. He was born and raised in Columbus, Ohio. His father and stepmother retired to California. He attended but did not graduate from the University of Kansas. He tried acting but didn't get far and worked as a business manager for a couple of small theatrical companies. That's how Vivian met him last year.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Vivian insinuated that he had a private income. I think that was a fabrication for our benefit.”

“I see.” Nat stood up. “I'll be honest. So far everything I've been told checks out. Your daughter was crazy about Covey, and he certainly acted as though he was in love with her. They were planning to go to
Hawaii, and she'd told a number of people that she was determined to be a good scuba diver by the time they got there. She wanted to do everything with him. He's an excellent swimmer but had never handled a boat before he met her. The squall wasn't supposed to come in until midnight. Frankly,
she's
the one who was experienced and should have known to turn on the radio in order to monitor the weather.”

“Does that mean you're giving up the investigation?” Carpenter asked.

“No. But it
does
mean that except for the obvious factors that Vivian was a wealthy young woman and they had been married only a brief time, there's really nothing to go on.”

“I see. Well, I thank you for sharing this with us. I'll walk you out.”

They had reached the door of the sunporch when Anne Carpenter called after them. “Mr. Coogan.”

Both Nat and Graham Carpenter turned.

“Just one thing. I know my daughter's body was in terrible condition because of the length of time it was in the water and the marine life attacking it . . .”

“I'm afraid that's true,” Nat agreed.

“Anne, dear, why torture yourself,” her husband protested.

“No, hear me out. Mr. Coogan, were the fingers of my daughter's right hand intact, or missing?”

Nat hesitated. “One hand was badly mutilated. The other was not. I believe it was the right hand that was in bad shape, but I'd want to check the autopsy pictures. Why do you ask?”

“Because my daughter always wore a very valuable emerald on the ring finger of her right hand. From the day my mother gave it to her, Vivian never took it off. We asked Scott about it because it was a family piece and we wanted it back if it had been found. But he told
us in so many words that her hand was mutilated and the ring missing.”

“I'll call you within the hour,” Nat said.

Back in his office, Nat studied the autopsy pictures for long minutes before he called the Carpenters.

All ten fingertips were missing. On the left hand the wedding band was on the ring finger. But it was the ring finger of the right hand that was a mess. Between the knuckle and hand it had been eaten to the bone. What had attracted the scavengers to it? Nat wondered.

There was no sign of the emerald ring.

When he called the Carpenters, Nat was careful not to jump to conclusions. He told Graham Carpenter that his daughter's right hand had suffered massive trauma and the ring was missing.

“Do you know if it was a loose or tight fit?” he asked.

“It had become tight,” Carpenter said. Then he paused before asking, “What are you saying?”

“I'm not saying anything, Mr. Carpenter. It is simply one more circumstance to consider. I'll stay in touch.”

As he hung up, Nat thought about what he had just learned. Could this be the smoking gun? he wondered. I'd bet the ranch that Covey ripped the ring off and then swam away from that poor kid. If the finger was bruised, there was blood near the surface, and that drew the scavengers.

“E
laine owes me one,” Adam muttered as he looked through the window of the keeping room and watched a car turn in from the driveway. They'd taken a picnic basket to the beach while Hildy, the cleaning woman Elaine had sent, went through the house. At two o'clock they went up for the appointment Adam had made with Scott Covey.

Adam showered and changed to shorts and a tee shirt. Menley was still in her bathing suit and cover-up when they heard Covey's car drive up.

“I'm glad he's here,” she told Adam. “While you're busy, I'll grab a nap with Hannah. I want to be sharp when I meet all your old buddies.”

Elaine was having a buffet supper in their honor at her home and had invited some of the people Adam had grown up with during summers at the Cape.

He caught her around the waist. “When they tell you how fortunate you are, be sure to agree.”

“Puh . . . leeze.”

The doorbell rang. Menley glanced at the stove. There was no way she could grab Hannah's bottle and be out of the kitchen before Scott Covey came in. She was curious about meeting the man with whom she felt so much empathy, but she also wanted to stay out
of the way in case Adam for any reason decided not to represent him. Curiosity won out, however; she decided to wait.

Adam strode to the door. His greeting for Scott Covey was cordial but reserved.

Menley stared at the visitor. No wonder Vivian Carpenter fell for him, she thought immediately.

Scott Covey was stunningly good looking, with even but strong features, a deep tan and dark blond hair that waved and curled even though he wore it short. He was lean as well, but broad shoulders added a hint of strength. When Adam introduced him to Menley, however, it was his eyes she found most compelling. They were a rich, deep hazel, but it wasn't just the color that fascinated her. Rather, she saw in them the same anguish she'd seen in her own eyes when she looked in the mirror after Bobby had died.

He's innocent, she decided. I'd stake my life on it. She was holding Hannah in her right arm. With a smile she shifted the baby and held out her hand. “I'm glad to meet you . . .” she said, then hesitated. He was about her age, she reasoned, and he was a good friend of one of Adam's best friends. So what should she call him? Mr. Covey sounded stilted. “. . . Scott,” she finished. She reached for the baby's bottle. “And now Hannah and I will let you two have a chance to talk.”

Again she hesitated. It was impossible to ignore the reason he was there. “I know I told you on the phone the other night, but I'm very sorry about your wife.”

“Thank you.” His voice was low, deep and musical. The kind of voice you could trust, she thought.

*   *   *

Hannah had no intention of going to sleep. When Menley put her down, she howled, pushed away the bottle and kicked off the blankets. “I may list you with an adoption agency,” Menley threatened with a smile. She looked at the antique cradle. “I wonder.”

The small single bed in the room had two pillows on it. She put one in the cradle, laid a still-fussing Hannah on top of it and covered her with the light quilt. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and began to rock the cradle. Hannah's fussing tapered off. In a few minutes her eyes began to close.

Menley's eyes were heavy too. I should get out of this bathing suit before I nap, she thought. But it's bone dry now, so what's the difference? She lay down and pulled up the folded afghan at the foot of the bed. Hannah whimpered. “Okay, okay,” she murmured, reaching out her hand and rocking the cradle gently.

She didn't know how long it was before the sound of light footsteps awakened her. Opening her eyes, she realized she must have dreamed them, since no one was there. But there was a chill in the room. The window was open, and the breeze must have gotten sharper. She blinked and looked over the edge of the bed. Hannah was blissfully asleep.

Boy, the service you get, kid, she thought. Even in my sleep I wait on you!

The cradle was moving from side to side.

“T
his is a wonderful house,” Scott Covey said as he followed Adam into the library. “My wife and I were looking at it just a few days before she died. She intended
to make an offer on it, but like a true New Englander she had no intention of looking eager to have it.”

“Elaine told me about that.” Adam indicated one of the battered club chairs by the windows and settled in the other one. “I don't have to point out that the furnishings are garage-sale rejects.”

Covey smiled briefly. “Viv was filled with ideas about going to antique shops and really giving the rooms the look they had in the early seventeen hundreds. Last summer she'd worked for a short time for an interior designer. She was like a kid in a candy store at the prospect of doing this big house herself.”

Adam waited.

“I'd better get down to business,” Covey said. “First, thank you for seeing me. I know it's your vacation and I know you wouldn't have done it if Elaine hadn't asked you.”

“That's true. Elaine is an old friend, and she obviously believes you need help.”