“I don’t know,” Jan said. “But I’ll certainly keep looking.”
When she hung up, Jan was lost in thought. Menley Nichols sounded genuinely glad to hear from her, but there was something in her voice that made Jan uneasy. What was it? And then the unanswered question once again ran through her mind.
Tom had suffered the heart attack at Remember House. He’d come in from working outside, clutching his chest. She’d made him lie down, then ran to phone the doctor. When she came back, he’d grabbed her hand and pointed to the fireplace. “Jan, I just saw . . .”
What had Tom seen? He didn’t live long enough to finish the sentence.
36
Menley had sent Amy home at two o’clock, after Hannah had been tucked in for an afternoon nap. Several times she had caught the teenager studying her and was slightly unnerved by the scrutiny. It was the same expression she so often saw on Adam’s face, and it made her uncomfortable. She was relieved when she heard Amy’s car start down the driveway.
Adam wouldn’t be home for another hour or so, she knew. After his meeting with Scott Covey he had a golf date with three of the friends who’d been at Elaine’s party. Well, maybe they’ll get all the “do-you-remember’s” out of their systems, she thought, then felt a little guilty. Adam loves golf and has so little opportunity to play, and it’s good that he has friends here.
It’s just that I’m so confused, she mused. Hearing the train, not remembering putting Hannah in the cradle, not absolutely sure I wasn’t on the widow’s walk when Amy thought she saw me. But I’ll go mad if Adam insists on having someone here all the time. She hated thinking of that first month after Hannah was born, when she’d been having the frequent anxiety attacks and they’d had a live-in nurse. She could still hear the well-intentioned soothing, but incredibly irritating, voice constantly urging her away from the baby. “Now Mrs. Nichols, why don’t you have a nice rest? I’ll take care of Hannah.”
She couldn’t allow that to happen again. She went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. I’ve got to get over these flashbacks and lapses, she thought to herself.
Menley settled down at the refectory table and went back to Phoebe Sprague’s files. The one marked SHIPWRECKS made fascinating reading. Sloops and packets and schooners and whaling vessels—during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries so many of them foundered in vicious ocean storms in this area, even right below this house. In those days the Monomoy strip was known as the White Graveyard of the Atlantic.
There was a reference to the Godspeed, which in fierce battle had overcome the “pasel of roughes on a pirate ship,” and whose captain, Andrew Freeman, personally hauled down the “bloodie flagg” the pirates had run up to the masthead.
The tough side of the captain, Menley thought. He must have been quite a guy. A mental image of him was forming in her mind. Lean face. Skin creased and roughened by the sun and wind. A close-cropped beard. Strong, irregular features dominated by piercing eyes. She reached for her sketchpad and with quick, sure strokes transferred the mental image to paper.
It was three-fifteen when she looked up again. Adam would be along soon, and Hannah was due to wake up. She had just time enough to glance through one more file. She chose the one marked MEETING ROOMS. On the Cape in the early days, the meeting rooms were the churches.
Phoebe Sprague had copied old records she had obviously found interesting. The pages included stories of fiery ministers who stood in the pulpit expounding the “Appetising of God” and the “Prompt Confusion of the Devil”; timid young ministers who gratefully accepted the salary of fifty pounds per annum and “a house and land and a good supply of firewood cut and brought to the door.” Fining a member of the congregation for small violations of the Sabbath had obviously been a common occurrence. There was a long list of minor infractions, like whistling, or allowing a pig to run loose on the Lord’s Day.
Then, as she was just about to close the file, Menley came across the name Mehitabel Freeman.
On December 10, 1704, at meeting, several good-wives stood up to testify that in the past month while Captain Andrew Freeman was at sea, they had observed Tobias Knight visiting Mehitabel Freeman “at unseemly hours.”
According to the account, Mehitabel, three months pregnant at the time, had jumped up to deny the charge hotly, but Tobias Knight, “humble and contrite, did confess his adultery and welcome the chance to cleanse his soul.”
The judgment of the deacons was to commend Tobias Knight for his pious renunciation of his sin and “to refuse to put him to open punishment but sentence him to pay for the said offence the sum of five pounds to the poor of the burough.” Mehitabel was given the opportunity to renounce her unchastity. Her furious refusal and scathing denunciation of both Tobias Knight and her accusers sealed her fate.
It was decreed that at the first town meeting six weeks after her delivery, “the adulteress Mehitabel Freeman would be presented to receive forty stripes save one.”
My God, Menley thought. How awful. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen at the time and, to quote her husband, “of gentle size and strength.”
There was a notation in Phoebe Sprague’s handwriting: “The Godspeed returned from a voyage to England on March 1st and sailed again on March 15th. Was the captain present for the baby’s birth? Birth registered as being on June 30th, as child of Andrew and Mehitabel, so no question seems to have been raised that he was the father. He returned mid-August, around which time her sentence would have been carried out. Sailed again immediately, taking baby, and was away nearly two years. Next record of Godspeed returning is August 1707.”
And all that time she didn’t know where her baby was or if it was even alive, Menley thought.
“Hey, you’re really into that material.”
Menley looked up, startled. “Adam!”
“That’s my name.”
Clearly relaxed, he was smiling. The visor of his cap shaded his face, but his blue sports shirt was open at the neck and revealed a touch of fresh sunburn, which was also apparent on his arms and legs. He leaned over Menley and put his arms around her. “When you’re this deep into research there’s no point in asking if you missed me.”
Trying to pull herself back into the present, Menley leaned her head against his arm. “I counted every minute you were gone.”
“Now that’s serious. How’s her nibs?”
“Fast asleep.”
Menley looked up and saw him glance at the baby monitor. He’s making sure it’s on, she thought. A cry, passionate and heartbreaking raced through her head. “Oh, love, why can you not trust me?”
36
When Fred Hendin pulled his car into the driveway of his modest Cape Cod home in Barnstable, he quickly learned that the man in the car parked across the street was waiting for him.
Nat Coogan, shield in hand, caught him at the door. “Mr. Hendin?”
Fred glanced at the shield. “I gave at the office.” His half smile belied the suggestion of sarcasm.
“I’m not selling tickets for the policemen’s ball,” Nat said pleasantly, quickly assessing the man in front of him. Late thirties, he thought. Norwegian or Swedish background. The man was barely medium height, with strong arms and neck, faded blondish hair in need of trimming. He was wearing denim overalls and a perspiration-soaked tee shirt.
Hendin inserted his key in the lock. “Come in.” He moved and spoke deliberately, as though he thought through everything before speaking or acting.
The room they entered reminded Nat of the first house he’d bought when he and Deb were married. It was made up of essentially small rooms, but there was a compact hominess to the floor plan that always appealed to him.
Fred Hendin’s living room might have been furnished from a catalogue. Imitation leather couch and matching recliner, walnut veneer end tables, matching coffee table, artificial flower arrangement, threadbare beige carpet, prim beige curtains that didn’t quite reach the windowsills.
Th
e obviously expensive entertainment center housed in a fine cherrywood breakfront seemed out of place. It consisted of a forty-inch television set, VCR and stereo system with CD player. There were shelves of videotapes. Nat unabashedly inspected them, then whistled. “You’ve got a great collection of classic films,” he commented. Then he examined the cassettes and CDs. “You must like forties and fifties music. My wife and I are nuts for it too.”
“Jukebox music,” Hendin said. “I’ve been collecting for years.”
On the top shelves there were a half-dozen wooden sculptures of sailing vessels. “If I’m being too intrusive just say so,” Nat said as he reached up and carefully removed an exquisitely carved schooner. “You did this?”
“Uh-huh. I carve while I’m listening to the music. A good hobby. And relaxing. What do you do when you listen to it?”
Nat replaced the carving and turned to face Hendin. “Sometimes I’ll be fixing something around the house or tinkering with the car. If the kids are away and we’re in the mood, my wife and I dance.”
“You’ve got me there. I have two left feet. I’m getting myself a beer. Want one? Or a soda?”
“No thanks.”
Nat watched Hendin’s back as he disappeared through the door frame. Interesting guy, he thought. He looked again at the top shelves of the breakfront, appreciating the finely carved sculptures. He’s a real craftsman, he thought. Somehow he could not picture this man and Tina together as a couple.
When Hendin returned he was carrying cans of beer and soda. “It’s there if you change your mind,” he said as he placed the soda in front of Nat. “All right, what do you want?”
“This is routine. You may have heard or read about Vivian Carpenter Covey’s death?”
Hendin’s eyes narrowed. “And last year Scott Covey was running around with my girlfriend and you want to know if he’s still involved with her.”
Nat shrugged. “You don’t waste time, Mr. Hendin.”
“Fred.”
“Okay, Fred.”
“Tina and I are going to get married. We started dating early last summer, and then Covey came along. Talk about old smoothie. I warned Tina that she was wasting her time, but listen, you’ve seen the guy. He fed her a line like you wouldn’t believe. Unfortunately, she did.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“Sore. And in a funny way, sorry for Tina. She’s not as tough as she looks or sounds.”
Yes she is, Nat thought.
“It was just as I figured,” Hendin said. “Covey did a disappearing act at the end of the summer.”
“And Tina came running back to you.”
Hendin smiled. “That’s what I kind of liked. She’s got spunk. I went to see her where she was waitressing and said I knew Covey was gone and I thought he was a louse. She told me not to waste my pity.”
“Meaning she was still in touch with him?” Nat asked quickly.
“No way. Meaning she wasn’t going to be grateful to me. We only dated once in a while over the winter. She saw a lot of other guys. Then in the spring she finally came around to figuring I’m not so bad.”
“Did she tell you she contacted Scott Covey when he moved back here?”
Hendin’s forehead became a mass of furrows. “Not right away. She told me a couple of weeks ago. You got to realize Tina isn’t the kind to let things go. She was damn sore and had to get it out of her system.” He gestured. “See this room, this house? It was my mother’s. I moved in a couple of years ago after she died.” He took a long swallow of beer.
“When Tina and I started talking about getting married, she told me there was no way she was going to live with all this junk. She’s right. I just didn’t bother to change anything except for making the breakfront and setting up my films and tapes in it. Tina wants a bigger house. We’re looking around for a ‘handyman’s special.’ But what I mean is, Tina says it straight.”
Nat consulted his notes. “Tina lives in a rented condo in Yarmouth.”
“Uh-huh. Just over the town line, a couple of miles from here. Makes it convenient for the two of us.”
“Why did she give up her job at the Daniel Webster Inn and go to work in Chatham? That’s a good forty-minute drive from here in summer traffic.”
“She liked the Wayside Inn. The hours are better. The tips are good. Listen, Coogan. Stay off Tina’s case.”
Hendin put his beer down and stood up. There was no mistaking that he was not about to discuss Tina any further.
Nat sank deeper into the chair and became aware of the sharp edges of broken plastic around the worn spot behind his head. “Then of course you totally condoned Tina’s visit to Scott Covey when his wife was still missing.”
Bull’s eye, Nat thought as he watched Hendin’s face cloud. A faint flush darkened the skin tone of his face, accentuating the prominent cheekbones. “I think we’ve talked enough,” he said flatly.
37
It had been a remarkably pleasant day. As happened occasionally, for some inexplicable reason, Phoebe had experienced brief moments of lucidity.
At one point she’d asked about the children and Henry had quickly placed a conference call. Listening in on an extension, he’d heard the joy in Richard and Joan’s voices as they spoke to their mother. For a few minutes there’d been a real exchange.
Then she asked, “And how are . . .”
Henry understood the pause. Phoebe was groping for the names of the grandchildren. Swiftly he provided them.
“I know.” Now Phoebe’s voice was irritable. “At least you didn’t start by saying ‘Remember . . .’ ” Her sigh was an angry reproach.
“Dad,” Joan sounded near tears.
“Everything’s fine,” he warned her.
A click told him that Phoebe had hung up. The wonderful moments of reprieve apparently were over. Henry stayed on the phone long enough to tell his children that the nursing home had an opening on September first.
“Take it for her,” Richard said firmly. “We’ll come down and stay through Labor Day.”
“So will we,” Joan echoed.
“You’re good kids,” Henry said, trying to push back the huskiness that was enveloping his throat.
“I want to be with someone who thinks of me as a kid,” his daughter told him, a catch in her voice.
“See you in a couple of weeks, Dad,” Richard promised. “Hang in there.”
Henry had been on the bedroom extension, Phoebe in her old office. Now Henry hurried to the foyer, the worry that Phoebe in a split second might wander away always with him. But she had not strayed; he found her sitting at the desk where she had spent so many productive hours.
The bottom drawer, which had held so many files, was open and empty. Phoebe was staring at it. The hair she used to wear in a smooth chignon was slipping from the pins that Henry had used to try to secure it in a bun.
She turned when she heard him come in. “My notes.” She pointed to the empty drawer. “Where are they?”
Even now he would not refuse her truth. “I lent them to Adam’s wife. She wants to consult them for a book she’s writing. She’ll credit you, Phoebe.”
“Adam’s wife.” The look of irritation that had crossed her face evolved into a questioning frown.
“She was here yesterday. She and Adam live in Remember House. She’s going to write a book about the time when the house was built and use the story of Captain Freeman.”
Phoebe Sprague’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “Someone should clear Mehitabel’s name,” she said. “That’s what I wanted to do. Someone should investigate Tobias Knight.”
She slammed shut the drawer. “I’m hungry. I’m always hungry.”
Then as Henry walked toward her, she looked directly at him. “I love you, Henry. Help me, please.”
38
When Hannah woke up Menley and Adam went for a late afternoon swim. The Remember House property granted private beach rights, which meant that, while anyone could walk on their beach, no
one could settle on it.
The midday warmth was edged now with a hint of early autumn. The breeze was cool, and there were no more strollers passing by.
Adam sat beside Hannah, comfortably propped up in her stroller while Menley swam. “Your mama certainly loves the water, kiddo,” he said as he watched Menley dive into the increasingly turbulent waves. Alarmed, he stood up as he saw her venturing farther out. Finally he walked to the water’s edge and waved to her, beckoning her to come in.
Had she not seen him, or pretended not to see him? he wondered as she swam farther out. A strong wave gathered, crested and broke. She rode it in and emerged from the surf, sputtering and smiling, her salt-filled hair hanging around her face.
“Terrific!” she exulted.
“And dangerous. Menley, this is the Atlantic Ocean.”
“No kidding. I thought it was a wading pool.”
Together they walked across the beach to where Hannah still sat, complacently observing a seagull hopping along the shore.
“Men, I’m not joking. When I’m not here, I don’t want you swimming out so far.”
She stopped. “And be sure to leave the monitor on when your daughter is asleep. Right? And don’t you think it would be nice to have Amy stay overnight? To mind me, not Hannah, me? Right? And isn’t your little weapon the implied threat that we need full-time live-in help because maybe this post-traumatic stress thing is a problem? After all, I was the one who drove the car in front of the train when your son was killed.”
Adam grasped her arms. “Menley, stop it. Damn it. You keep blaming me for not forgiving you for Bobby’s death, but there’s no question of blame here. The only problem is that you can’t forgive yourself.”
They went back to the house, stiffly aware that each had hurt the other deeply and that they should talk this one through. The phone was ringing as they opened the door, however, and Adam ran for it. Any talk would have to come later. Menley tossed a towel over her damp swimsuit, picked up Hannah and listened.