She wanted to try to explain to Mrs. Nichols. She looked at her watch. It was four o’clock. Yes, she’d phone.
Mrs. Nichols answered on the first ring. She sounded a little breathless. “Amy, I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’m on my way to the airport, and Hannah is in the car.”
“It’s just I’m so sorry if you thought I was talking about you,” Amy stammered. “I didn’t mean to do that. What I mean is, you see . . .” She tried to explain about the dress and that she was sure she’d been mistaken. “You came out of the house right afterward.”
Then she waited. There was a pause before Mrs. Nichols said, “Amy, I’m glad you called. Thank you.”
“I really miss working for you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, Amy. Are you free to baby-sit tomorrow? I really must study all the data I have from Mrs. Sprague, and I’ll need you to watch Hannah.”
52
Henry Sprague took his wife for a walk along their favorite strip of beach, the one that eventually ran in front of Remember House. It was quarter past six when they saw Adam and Menley with their baby at the water’s edge. They stopped to visit.
“I just got back from New York,” Adam explained, “and I had to get some sand in my shoes right away. Come up and have a glass of wine with us.”
It had been a bad day for Phoebe. After she and Henry and Jan Paley came back from Scott Covey’s, she had been terribly agitated. She’d gone into the office and searched for her files, accusing Henry and Jan of stealing them. Henry reasoned it might be a good idea if she saw them where they were now while he explained again why Menley had them. And he wanted to tell Adam about talking to Scott.
He accepted the invitation, and they followed the Nicholses up from the beach to the house. As they crossed the lawn, he explained to Menley what he wanted to do.
Menley listened, her heart sinking, praying that Phoebe would not insist on taking her data back.
But in the keeping room, Phoebe Sprague only seemed pleased to see the neat stacks of files and papers and books. Lovingly she ran her fingers over them, and as her husband and Menley and Adam watched, her face cleared. The vague expression in her eyes receded. “I wanted to tell her story,” she murmured as she opened the file of sketches.
Menley saw that Phoebe intended to look at all the pictures. When Phoebe came to the ones Menley had sketched, she held them up and cried, “Oh, you copied them from the painting I have of Mehitabel and Andrew together on the ship. I haven’t been able to find that one. I thought I’d lost it.”
Thank God, Menley thought. There is a picture I might have copied. With this damn medication, I know my head isn’t on straight.
Phoebe stood for a moment, studying Mehitabel’s face. She could feel herself stepping backward, being drawn into dark confusion, becoming lost again. She willed her mind to keep going. Her husband loved her, she thought, but he didn’t believe her. That’s why she died. I’ve got to warn Adam’s wife. That’s the plan for her.
Plan! Plan! She tried to hold on to the thought, but it had become meaningless.
Mehitabel. Andrew. Who else? Before her mind became cloudy and gray and empty again, she managed to whisper to Menley, “Mehitabel innocent. Tobias Knight. Answer in Mooncussers file.”
53
Graham and Anne Carpenter received the phone call from the district attorney late Wednesday afternoon. They’d started to play golf but had quit after the ninth hole because Anne wasn’t feeling well.
Graham realized that it might have been a mistake to pressure the authorities to openly accuse Scott Covey of being responsible for Vivian’s death. The media was delighted to have a juicy news story and had laid out every detail of Vivian’s life they could find.
Now the tabloids were referring to her as “the poor little rich girl,” “the outcast,” “the pot-smoking rebel.” Details of their private lives were being distorted and held up for public ridicule and entertainment.
Anne was crushed and humiliated and bitter. “Maybe we should have left it alone, Graham. We couldn’t bring her back, and now they’re destroying her memory.”
At least the inquest would clear the air, Graham thought as he made their five o’clock martinis and carried the tray to the sunporch, where Anne was resting.
“A bit early isn’t it?” she asked.
“A little,” he agreed. “That was the district attorney on the phone. The judge in Orleans is calling an inquest for Monday afternoon.”
In response to her alarmed expression, he said, “At least the circumstances will be aired. It’s a public hearing, and after all the facts are presented, we want the judge to decide one of three ways: no evidence of foul play; no evidence of negligence; no evidence of criminal negligence.”
“Suppose the judge decides there is no evidence of negligence or foul play?” Anne said. “We’ll have gone through this disgusting publicity for nothing.”
“Not for nothing, dear. You know that.”
From inside they heard faint ringing. A moment later the housekeeper came to the door, carrying the cellular phone. “It’s Mr. Stevens, sir. He said it’s important.”
“That’s the investigator the insurance company put on Covey,” Graham said. “I insisted on being informed immediately of anything he found.”
Anne Carpenter watched as her husband listened intently and then asked rapid-fire questions. When he hung up, he looked exhilarated.
“Stevens is in Florida, at Boca Raton. That’s where Scott spent last winter. Apparently he was visited a number of times by a flashy-looking brunette named Tina. Her last visit was a week before he came up here and married Vivian!”
54
As soon as she’d picked up Adam at the airport, Menley had a feeling that something had unsettled him. She understood what it was when they were preparing for bed and he gave her the package of medicine from Dr. Kaufman.
“Which one of you called the other?” she asked evenly.
“I called the doctor, who was trying to decide whether or not to call me.”
“I think I’d rather talk about it in the morning.”
“If that’s what you want.”
It was the way they had most often gone to bed in the year after Bobby’s death and before she became pregnant with Hannah, Menley thought. An impersonal kiss; lying apart; disparate emotions separating them as effectively as a bundling board.
She turned on her side and pillowed her face in her hand. A bundling board. Odd that she’d made that comparison. She’d just come upon the definition of that fixture of colonial times. In the winter, when a young man and woman were courting, the house was frequently so cold that the couple would be allowed to lie together in the same bed, fully clothed, swathed in blankets and with a long wooden plank firmly in place between them.
How much did Dr. Kaufman tell Adam? Menley wondered. Did she feel it was her obligation to let him know about the flashback when I thought I heard the train and Bobby calling me?
Then Menley froze. Had the doctor told Adam that Hannah’s crying had been profoundly disturbing, that I didn’t trust myself to touch her? Did Adam tell the doctor about the widow’s walk? I didn’t bring that up to her.
Dr. Kaufman and Adam may be afraid I’ll hurt Hannah, Menley thought. What did they decide to do? Would they insist on a full-time baby-sitter or nurse always being present when Adam wasn’t there?
No, she thought, there was another, more terrible possibility. With a sinking heart, Menley was sure she had hit on the right answer. Adam will take me to New York, and Dr. Kaufman will sign me into a psychiatric hospital. I cannot let that happen. I cannot be away from Hannah. That would destroy me.
I am getting better, she told herself. I did manage to go over the railroad crossing when I drove Adam to the airport this week. Even the other night, when I thought I heard Bobby calling, I did come out of it by myself. I did go back to Hannah. I did not hurt her, and I did comfort her. And I want to stay here.
Being careful not to disturb Adam, Menley drew the blanket closer around her neck. In happier times if she woke up chilly she would simply slide into the warmth of Adam’s arms. Not now. Not like this.
I simply can never allow Adam to see any sign of my anxiety, she told herself. I’ve got to beat him to the punch in the morning and say that I’d like to have Amy around all day to help with Hannah. In a day or two I’ll have to tell him how much better I feel, that maybe the doctor was right, that the medication shouldn’t have been reduced so quickly.
I don’t like being dishonest with him, but he’s not being honest with me, she thought. Elaine’s call about dinner the other afternoon had been arranged ahead of time.
It will be so much easier to have a baby-sitter around all day in this house. I won’t have the feeling of her being underfoot the way I do in the apartment. And Hannah is thriving here.
The new book is a fascinating project. Working always keeps me on an even keel. A David book with Andrew as the boy who grows up to become the captain of his own ship could be my best. I feel it.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but Jan Paley’s story about people who claim a presence in their old houses intrigues me and would intrigue readers. It would make a great historical article for Travel Times.
And I want to tell Mehitabel’s story. Phoebe insists she is innocent and that the proof is in the Mooncusser file. That poor girl was condemned as an adulteress, publicly flogged, despised by her husband, and her baby was taken from her. Bad enough if she’d been guilty but unimaginable if she was innocent. I want to find the proof of her innocence, if it exists.
Do I feel a kinship with her because my husband may be conspiring with my psychiatrist to separate me from my baby and because I’m innocent of what they believe about me, that I’m not capable of caring for her?
This must be the way it is for Scott Covey, she told herself. People watching, whispering, trying to find a way to lock you up. A smile tugged at her lips when she thought of Scott’s raised eyebrow and hint of a wink as they listened to John labor through one of his interminable stories at dinner the night before.
Finally Menley felt herself relaxing and drifting off. She awakened with a start, not sure of how long she’d slept. She’d make sure Hannah was covered. As she slid out of bed, Adam jumped up and asked sharply, “Menley, where are you going?”
She bit back an angry retort and tried to sound offhand. “Oh, I woke up because I was chilly and thought I’d check the baby. Have you been awake, dear? Maybe you’ve looked in to see if she’s covered.”
“No, I’ve been asleep.”
“I’ll be right back.”
There was a musty smell in the room. Hannah had turned over and was sleeping with her bottom raised, her legs tucked under her. Her blankets were scattered on the floor. The stuffed animals that had been on the dresser were arranged around her in the crib. The antique doll was propped in a sitting position in the cradle.
Frantically Menley tossed the toys back on the dresser, picked up the blankets, and shook them out.
“I didn’t do that, Hannah,” she whispered as she covered her daughter. “I didn’t do that.”
“What didn’t you do, Menley?” Adam asked from the doorway.
55
Thursday morning was cloudy, and a sharply cool breeze sent the residents of Chatham scurrying to their closets for long-sleeved shirts and jackets. It was the kind of day that Marge, Elaine’s assistant, claimed “gave her pep.”
The Atkins Real Estate Agency had a number of new listings, and Elaine had personally gone around to make flattering shots of the properties. She had developed and enlarged the photos, and the day before she had brought them into the office.
Feeling the coolness in the air when she awoke, Marge decided to go to the office early and take advantage of an uninterrupted hour to rearrange the display windows. She arrived there at seven-thirty and began removing the existing photos.
At ten of nine she was finished and standing out on the sidewalk, critically surveying her handiwork. Very nice, she thought, as she admired the effect.
The pictures were unusually good and showed the properties to excellent advantage. There was a lovely old Cape on Cockle Cove Ridge, a charming saltbox on Deep Water Lane, a contemporary on Sandy Shoes Lane and a dozen other lesser, but attractive, properties.
The most important listing was a waterfront estate on Wychmere Harbor. Elaine had hired the aerial photographer she always used to take a panoramic shot of that property. Marge had put it in the center of the window, in place of the framed Remember House aerial photo.
From behind her, Marge heard the sound of applause. She turned quickly.
“I’ll buy all of them,” Elaine said as she got out of her car.
“Sold!” Marge waited as Elaine walked up and stood beside her. “Honestly, what do you think?”
Elaine studied the exhibit. “I think they look great. I suppose it was time to take out my favorite, the Remember House shot.”
“I honestly think so, especially since you’re so sure the Nicholses are going to buy it.”
Elaine preceded her into the agency. “I’m afraid that remains to be seen,” she said soberly. “I’m getting the impression that Menley Nichols isn’t a bit well.”
“I never met her,” Marge said, “but Adam Nichols is a lovely man. I remember how sad he looked when he came up here last year and you took him around. He rented the Spark cottage, near your house, didn’t he?”
“That’s right.” Elaine spotted the photo of Remember House, propped against a chair. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Let’s send this over to Scott Covey. If everything gets straightened out for him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he elected to stay on the Cape, and he and Vivian were crazy about that place. At least that way he’ll keep the house in mind. Just in case the Nicholses don’t take it.”
“But suppose he isn’t interested? If the property goes back on the market, you’ll be sorry you gave it to him, Elaine.”
“I’ve got the negative. I can make other copies.”
She went into her own office. Marge began to transfer the pictures she’d taken from the window to the oversized album on the reception area table. The tinkling front door bell announced their first visitor.
It was the delivery boy from the florist. He was carrying a vase of long-stemmed roses.
“For Miss Atkins,” he said.
“I never dreamed they were for me,” Marge commented. “Take them in to her. You know the way.”
After he left, Marge went in to admire the flowers. “Absolutely beautiful. This is getting to be a frequent occurrence. But what the heck is that?”
There was a streamer in the bouquet, with the number 106 pasted on it. “I know you’re not that old, Elaine.”
“John’s just being sweet. That’s how many days until we’re married.”
“He’s a romantic, and God knows there are few of them left. Elaine, do you think the two of you will want to have a child?”
“He already has one, and I like to think that Amy and I are getting closer.”
“But Amy’s seventeen. She’s going off to college. It would be different if she were a baby.”
Elaine laughed. “If she were a baby, I wouldn’t be marrying John. I’m just not that domestic.”
The phone rang. “I’ll get it.” Elaine picked it up. “Atkins Real Estate, Elaine Atkins speaking.” She listened. “Adam! . . . Is that bad? I mean an inquest sounds so intimidating. Of course I’ll go over my testimony. Lunch with you would be fine. One o’clock? See you then.”
When she hung up she told Marge, “It sounds like good news. They’re convening an inquest on Vivian Covey’s death, which means the media can be present. So this will be a chance for all of us to go to bat for Scott.” She got up. “Where’s the Remember House picture?”
“By my desk,” Marge told her.
“Let’s messenger it over to him with a note.”
On her per
sonal stationery, she quickly penned a few sentences in her clear, decisive handwriting.
Dear Scott,
I just heard about the inquest and welcome the chance to let the world know how happy you and Vivian were that beautiful afternoon when you were looking at Remember House. You enjoyed the view so much I wanted you to have this picture to remind you of it.
Yours,
Elaine.
56
At ten o’clock on Thursday morning, as the breakfast service was winding down, Tina Aroldi used her fifteen-minute break to rush into the office of the Wayside Inn. The secretary was there alone.
“Jean, what was that detective doing looking under my car yesterday?” Tina demanded.
“I don’t know what you mean,” the secretary protested.
“You sure do know what I mean. Don’t bother to lie. A couple of the busboys saw him through the window.”
“There’s nothing to lie about,” Jean stammered. “The detective asked me to point out your car, then he came back and wanted to know if you ever answered the phone for reservations.”
“I see.”
Preoccupied, Tina went back to her station in the dining room. A few minutes after one, she was not pleased to see Scott’s lawyer, Adam Nichols, come in with Elaine Atkins, the real estate broker, who often brought clients to the inn.
She saw Nichols gesturing toward her. Great. He wanted to be sure she was their waitress. The hostess seated them at one of her tables, and reluctantly, pad in hand, Tina went over to greet them.
She was surprised at the warm smile Nichols gave her. He sure is attractive, Tina thought, not drop-dead handsome, but there was something about him. You got a feeling he’d be a pretty exciting guy to be with. And you could tell he was smart.
Well, he might be smiling today, but the other morning when he came in with Scott, he sure hadn’t been smiling, Tina reflected. He was probably one of those guys who was nice when he needed you.