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Elaine had understated the girl’s expertise. She’d been baby-sitting since she was thirteen and most recently had stayed with a family with year-old twins. She was planning to be a nursery school teacher.
    They agreed that she would come in for several afternoons a week, to help out while Menley was doing research for her writing projects, and occasionally would stay for the evening if they wanted to go out for dinner.
    As the girl was leaving, Menley said, “I’m so glad Elaine suggested you, Amy. Now do you have any questions for me?”
    â€œYes . . . I . . . no, never mind.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œNothing, honest, nothing.”
    When she was well out of earshot, Adam said quietly, “That kid is afraid of something.”

10
    H enry Sprague sat on the couch in the sunroom, the photo album on his lap. Phoebe was beside him, seemingly attentive. He was pointing out pictures to her. “This is the day we took the kids to see the Plymouth Rock for the first time. At the rock you told them the story of the pilgrims landing. They were only six and eight then, but they were fascinated. You always made history sound like an adventure story.”
    He glanced at her. There was no hint of recognition in her eyes, but she nodded, anxious to please him. It had been a rough night. He’d awakened at two to find Phoebe’s side of the bed empty. Heartsick, he’d rushed to see if she’d gotten out of the house again. Even though he’d put special locks on the doors, she had somehow managed to leave through the kitchen window last week. He’d reached her just as she was about to start the car.
    Last night she’d been in the kitchen with the kettle on and one of the gas jets open.
    Yesterday he had heard from the nursing home. There would be an opening on September first.“Please reserve it for my wife,” he had told them miserably.
    â€œWhat nice children,” Phoebe said. “What are their names?”
    â€œRichard and Joan.”
    â€œAre they all grown up?”
    â€œYes. Richard is forty-three. He lives in Seattle with his wife and boys. Joan is forty-one, and she lives in Maine with her husband and daughter. You have three grandchildren, dear.”
    â€œI don’t want to see any more pictures. I’m hungry.”
    One of the effects of the disease was that her brain sent false signals to her senses. “You had breakfast just a few minutes ago, Phoebe.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t.” Her voice became stubborn.
    â€œAll right. Let’s go in and fix something for you.” As they got up, he put his arm around her. He’d always been proud of her tall, elegant body, the way she held her head, the poised warmth that emanated from her. I wish we could have just one more day the way it used to be, he thought.
    As Phoebe hungrily ate a roll and gulped milk, he told her that they were having company. “A man named Nat Coogan. It’s business.”
    There was no use trying to explain to Phoebe that Coogan was a detective who was coming to talk to him about Vivian Carpenter Covey.
    *   *   *
    As Nat drove past Vivian Carpenter’s house, he studied it carefully. It was vintage Cape, the kind of house that had been added to and expanded over the years so that now it rambled agreeably along the property. Surrounded by blue and purple hydrangeas, impatiens spilling from the window boxes, it was a postcard-perfect residence, although he knew that in all likelihood the rooms were fairly small. Still, it wasobviously well kept and on valuable property. According to the real estate agent, Elaine Atkins, Vivian and Scott Covey had been looking for a larger home for the family they planned to start.
    How much would this place go for, Nat wondered? Situated on Oyster Pond, maybe an acre of property? Half a million? Since Vivian’s will left everything to her husband, this would be