The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  “It’s not important. The whistle necklaces are a great idea.”

  “I’ll worry until I know.”

  “It’s no big deal. Just that Stiles came over last night.”

  “About the case?”

  “No. It was a social call.”

  “Really?” She was quiet for a minute, chewing on that. I could hear her mind whirring. “And?”

  Good question, I thought. “And it got complicated. It went south.”

  “So fast? What the hell happened?”

  “We don’t share priorities. We have different values—” “Zoe, what are you talking about? What does that mean? Who gives a damn about sharing values? Tim and I’ve been married seventeen years, and I don’t have a clue what he ‘values.’ Hell, we don’t agree on anything. We cancel out each other’s votes every election.” I didn’t say anything.

  “Why not give it some time? Leave the door open for a while?”

  My sheets were still rumpled. My face was sore from whisker burn. “I don’t think so, no. Look, he lied about finding the bag of body parts. He denied to my face that it even exists. And he lied to you about the finger. Susan, the man lies.”

  “So? He might have reasons.”

  “You’re saying that lying’s okay if you have reasons?”

  “I didn’t say lying was okay. It probably isn’t. But I don’t see what the big deal is. People lie. We all do. Haven’t you ever lied? Told someone you loved her runny souffle? Swore you had a great time at a dull party? Faked an orgasm?”

  “That’s not the same—”

  “Look, we can debate this all day, but the girls are waiting in the car. Remember, Zoe, the truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We all need a good lie now and then.”

  “So. Do you lie?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Okay. Do you lie to me?”

  “I might bend the truth now and then. Depends on about what or why.” “Ouch.”

  “See? The truth hurts. I should have lied and said, ‘No, I never lie to you.’ You’d have felt better.”

  “Okay. I see your point. You’re right. I’ll give him another chance.”

  “You’re lying, aren’t you?” “So what? You’ll feel better.”

  “Okay. Look, I know you’re pissed at him. I was pissed off when he pretended there was no finger. But remember, Stiles is working a sensitive case. He’s not at liberty to reveal what he knows. It’s not fair to ask him to.”

  Maybe she was right, but I didn’t think so. I couldn’t trust Nick professionally or personally. And if I were going to let a man get close to me, I had to trust him to tell me the truth, even if it was that my souffle was runny, that my party was a bore, or that a bagful of body parts had been found a block from my front door.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I LIKE YOUR BOYFRIEND, MOM.“ WE WERE ON THE WAY TO

  Karen’s for the playdate.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” I never should have let Nick meet Molly. I had no right to involve her.

  “Mom. He’s a boy, isn’t he? And he’s your friend. So he’s your boyfriend. Right?”

  “If you put it that way. I guess he is.”

  We were quiet for a few steps. “Is Nick coming back tonight?”

  “No. Not tonight, Mollybear. Why? Do you want him to?”

  She shook her head as if I were missing the point. “Mom. He’s your boyfriend, not mine. The thing is, do you want him to?”

  She looked so serious, so like a tiny therapist, that even in my somber mood I had to laugh. She laughed, too. How was this almost six-year-old so smart? And how, with all the fear and alarm raging in our neighborhood, with me having just ended the shortest relationship of my life, were we able to laugh out loud half the way to Karen and Nicholas’s? I didn’t know. But we were and it felt good. A reprieve. A release of tensions.

  Then, with half a block to go, she said, “Is it true about that killer, Mommy?”

  The giggling stopped, shattering like a fallen icicle.

  “What killer?”

  “The man killing all the babysitters.”

  “No. It’s not true.” It wasn’t technically a lie; he wasn’t killing all of them.

  She shrugged. “Everybody says it is.”

  “Well, it’s not.” Okay, so I was lying. But I had reasons. Besides, truth was like Jell-O. “Will he kill Angela?” “Of course not.” “But what if he does?” “He won’t.”

  She was quiet for a few steps. “Mommy. Just pretend. If he does kill Angela, who’ll stay with me while you work? Will Nick?”

  Nick again. She liked him. I remembered the pressure of his chest against mine. Damn. I shouldn’t have let him come into the house, much less stay the night. “Nothing’s going to happen to Angela.”

  “But I’ve seen him watching her.”

  “Who? Nick?” I slowed. A cloud of breath hung in front of her mouth.

  “No. The killer.”

  “How have you seen him?” Was she having nightmares? Fantasies? What was she talking about? “Just . . . I’ve seen him.” No way. “Where?”

  “Um.” She thought awhile. “All over.”

  I stopped walking and stooped to meet her eyes. “Molly, are you having bad dreams?”

  “Tsk. I know the difference, Mommy. I’m not a baby.”

  She seemed certain. I stood and we started walking again. “Well, tell me about him. How do you know it’s him?”

  “I just know.”

  “Okay. What does he look like?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. Big. He has a baseball hat.”

  Okay. The killer had been seen “all over,” he looked “big,” and he wore “a baseball hat.” That’s what I got for interviewing a kindergartner. Her imagination was running amok; she was scared and had reason to be. I hadn’t paid enough attention to what she’d heard and overheard. She must be terrified. It was time to reassure her.

  “Listen, Molly. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them. And Nick’s a policeman. He and the other police are going to catch the bad guy.”

  She looked convinced—but small and cold, shivering inside her hooded pink down jacket. I hugged her, and we held hands as we continued our walk. It must be wonderful to be six and still believe that there was order in the world, that grown-ups loved you and could pick you up in their arms and keep you safe, that they really had control over what happened in life.

  Karen and Nicholas greeted us at the door, and the children ran off to play. It wasn’t until later, when Molly and Nicholas were decorating holiday cookies, that I understood the effectiveness of my reassurances.

  “You know Angela?” she asked Nicholas.

  “Course.” He smeared blue icing on a Santa cookie.

  “She might be killed.” Molly spread colored sprinkles over a pink snowman.

  “How do you know?” He took the sprinkles from her.

  Karen put down her spatula and touched my arm, eavesdropping along with me. She still hoped Tamara was alive. She didn’t know about the finger I’d found or the bag of limbs that had been discovered a few blocks away.

  “I’ve seen him. He sneaks around and watches her.” Molly knocked over the bottle of cinnamon candies. “Oops—uh-oh.” They began stuffing the spilled pieces into their mouths, giggling.

  Karen whispered, “What’s she saying?”

  “It’s anxiety,” I whispered back. “She’s imagining stuff.” She had to be. There was no other explanation.

  Karen nodded and went back to taking cookies from the tray. “I love these.” Nicholas’s mouth was stuffed with candy. “Me, too.”

  Karen’s eyes began to relax. “I guess it’s her way of coping,” she whispered. But we continued to eavesdrop on the children. “Where’d you see him?” “By my house.” “For real?” “Uh-huh.”

  “Then what’s he look like?” “Like—just—scary.” “You’re making it up—” “I am not—I’ve seen him—”

  “Nicholas,
” Karen interrupted. Her eyes were disapproving. Alarmed. “Here’s a batch of stars. You haven’t done any stars yet.”

  The conversation was halted, the topic changed. The rest of the afternoon, nobody mentioned Angela or a scary man or any of the missing nannies. But when we said good-bye and left with arms loaded with cookie tins, I knew what would linger there, so I avoided Karen’s eyes.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MONDAY MORNING, ANGELA ARRIVED WITH AN ATTITUDE. SHE was miffed, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even look at me.

  I tried to deal with her. “You got your nails done,” I said. They were about three inches of crimson acrylic, a pattern of rhinestones glittering on her ring fingers. Molly craned her neck over the kitchen counter to see.

  “Yeah.” Her word pierced the air like a shot.

  “Your hair looks nice, too.” It had a few extra layers of spray, tough to break through.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Can we paint my nails, too, Mom? Can we?”

  “Sure. If Angela wants to. Go get the nail kit.” The nail kit was an old shoe box where we kept polish and clippers; Molly scampered off to get it. As soon as she was out of the room, I asked, “Okay. You want to tell me what’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up.”

  “Angela. Either tell me or don’t, but either way, deal with it.”

  She turned to me, hand on hip. “Okay, you wanna know? You got no business setting me up with that guy.”

  It took me a second to figure out what she was talking about. Then I remembered: Jake. The ride home.

  “I got you a ride home so you wouldn’t have to walk alone—”

  Angela wheeled around. “Look, there’s just somethin’ about that guy.”

  “He was probably flirting. Don’t take it so seriously.”

  “No, no. I don’t like him and I don’t want his damn rides. I can take care of myself.” Her fingers flew, nails carving the air. “I don’t need no personal bodyguard. I take kickboxing. Don’t worry about me. I know what to do, anybody messes with me.”

  “You take kickboxing?”

  “I do. I’ll teach you, too, if you want. I’m teaching Molly.” “You’re teaching Molly?”

  “Sure. Why not? She’s gotta know how to defend herself, same as the rest of us.”

  “Angela, look. Those classes are great, but a real killer might not approach you the way the instructor demonstrates—”

  “What do you know about it? They show us all kinds of ways. They come at us from every direction.” Then she softened a little. “Look, Joe’d have a fit, me getting rides home from work with some guy. I know you got my interests at heart, Zoe. But I got it covered. Nobody’s gonna bother me.”

  She took two eggs out of the fridge and cracked them into a bowl for Molly’s breakfast. She beat the eggs a little too enthusiastically.

  I understood about Joe, though. Her longtime boyfriend, a car mechanic with perpetually dirty fingernails, was known for his fragile ego and a hot temper. He was possessive and shifty-eyed, and I’d often wondered what Angela saw in him. “You know, with all those nannies missing, Joe should be glad someone drove you home and kept his eye on you.”

  “Yeah? Well, anybody keeps his eye on me, Joe’s gonna punch it out.”

  “I don’t think he’ll mess with Jake.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You think Joe’s not as buffed as Jake? He lifts every day. Joe can lift one-sixty.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Well, I did, actually. Joe was probably six inches shorter than Jake; he’d get clobbered. “I meant he had too much sense to mess with a guy who’s only trying to help us out. If there were more people like Jake in the neighborhood, maybe some of those women would still be around.”

  “What? Are you inferring that it’s Joe’s fault that women are disappearing?”

  “Implying,” I said. “Not inferring.”

  She sputtered, defending her boyfriend, and I considered what she’d just said. Even if Angela didn’t consciously suspect him, did she sense that Joe had something to do with the missing nannies? Joe wasn’t local, but he was in and out of the neighborhood because of Angela. Besides, he had a nasty temper, insecurities about women. Should I mention him to Nick? What was happening to me? Because of Nick and his damned profile, I was beginning to suspect everyone. Joe wasn’t capable of kidnapping and murder. He couldn’t be.

  Something out the window caught Angela’s attention. She stopped scolding and stood on her tiptoes to see better.

  Beyond the passing cars, Phillip Woods stood on his porch, buttoning his coat. A construction crew huddled with thermoses of coffee.

  “There’s Jake now.” Angela’s long nails arranged her hair. “I gotta go deal with this.”

  “Are you sure? With the whole crew around, you might not want to—”

  But she was already out the door, a petite, busty woman without a coat, in skin-tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and fancy fingernails, headed smack into a cluster of bulky construction workers. I expected hoots and fireworks, but as she strutted up to them, they nodded cordially or tipped their hats. She and Jake stepped aside. Talking, gesturing. If her body language meant anything, it wasn’t a fight.

  “Here—I got it.” Molly returned with the nail kit. “Where’s Angela?”

  Angela was standing in front of Jake, pointing her finger into his chest. Was she threatening him or flirting? Her clawlike nail rested on his jacket, provocative, either way.

  “She’ll be right back,” I said. “Let’s pick a color. I have to go to work soon.”

  “I want the same as Angela.”

  “Red, then.”

  “I know. Which red?” She searched the bottles, lining reds along the counter.

  “Molly,” I said, “has Angela taught you kickboxing?”

  She grinned. “Yeah. It’s like karate. Wanna see? Somebody comes at you from the front, you smash their nose like this and kick like that.” She demonstrated on the air. “Or you go like this behind their knee and they fall.”

  She jabbed her foot into empty space, buckling an imaginary leg, an unfamiliar viciousness in her eyes. Who was this child? “I think this is the red Angela has.”

  She came running over to look.

  Outside, Angela tossed her head and sashayed back to our house. Jake stood watching her, head tilted, bemused. If she’d wanted him to leave her alone, she might not have made her point.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  AS ARRANGED WITH NICK, WHEN I GOT TO THE INSTITUTE, I set out to find Dr. Beverly Gardener’s office to pick up the profile. Her office was listed in the lobby as Room 37, in the basement, where most staff psychiatrists had their offices. My work almost never took me down there; in fact, I’d been in the basement only twice and hadn’t enjoyed either visit. The air there was tomblike and musty, the halls intricate and poorly lit. A catacomb.

  But I was supposed to meet her there at nine to pick up a copy of her report. So, bracing myself, I walked past Agnes to the elevator at the end of the corridor and pushed the down button. Tired metal rattled and creaked, and slowly the dial indicated that the car was groaning its way to the first floor.

  Finally, the elevator doors slid open. I was uneasy about the meeting. Dr. Gardener might think I wasn’t qualified to work with her—after all, I wasn’t headline material. But I didn’t have to justify my role was here at the request of the police. Nick had said he’d discussed my involvement with her.

  The doors opened, and I entered the dimly lit labyrinth of marble floors and drafty corridors. A maze of gray walls lined with frosted glass doors. What was behind all those doors? Private offices? Patients’ rooms? Closets? Passing an open one, I peeked in. A huge expanse of white tiles surrounded a four-legged bathtub in the center of the floor. Nothing else was in there. Not a sink. Not a cabinet. Not a towel rack. Creepy. I kept walking.

  I saw nobody, heard only my own footsteps echoing along the walls. I followed the numbers. 77, 75. At 59, I encountered a pungen
t smell. Pipe tobacco? At 53, shrill laughter rolled under the door. When I got to 47, a door slammed behind me; I looked around. No one was there. The click of high-heeled shoes echoed from an intersecting corridor. Somewhere a door opened and closed. Then silence. Just the padding of my own shoes. I looked behind me. The hallway extended emptily back to the elevator. I walked on. Now the door said 92. Damn. I was lost. I turned back and retraced my steps. At 84, harsh laughing erupted, then abruptly ended, emphasizing the silence that followed. At 43, the hallway veered left. 42. 41. I was back on track.

  From somewhere came a dull, rhythmic thumping. Maybe from an alcove up ahead, a waiting area. Was it footsteps? Yes, maybe someone pacing. Maybe in the alcove. I slowed, listening, watching. A lone shadow emerged from the alcove and slid along the hallway floor. Back and forth. Then it stopped, lay still, a dark stripe among shadows. Had it heard my footsteps? Why was it so still? Who was there?

  A clammy draft tickled my neck; I wheeled around, saw no one. The hallway was deserted, except for me and the shadow in the alcove. No stalkers. No ghosts. No reason to be nervous. Besides, Dr. Gardener’s office was just a few doors ahead, within easy reach. I pictured myself breathlessly bursting through her door, panicking. No. I wasn’t going to do that. The shadow began to pace again.

  Okay, I told myself. Enough. The hall is dim and creepy, and every sound makes eerie echoes, but that doesn’t mean that there’s a serial killer in the alcove. Just keep walking and mind your own business. I made myself continue, step by step. I was fine. Even so, the hairs on my neck stiffened as I approached the waiting area. Passing the opening, I braced myself, ready to bolt.

  I didn’t bolt, though. I did a double take, not registering the face at first. I recognized it but needed a minute to place it; the face didn’t belong at the Institute. Gradually, though, I recognized the spectacles, the pale face, the cashmere coat. The man in the alcove was my neighbor Phillip Woods.

  Phillip Woods? I was so relieved, I almost hugged him and laughed out loud. But we were in a psychiatric hospital. I wasn’t sure he’d want to be recognized, let alone to be embraced with laughter by his neighbor. What was he doing here? Was he a patient? Or visiting one? He gaped at me, wide-eyed, apparently as nervous as I’d been. I nodded and kept walking, trying to be discreet, trying to absorb the oddity of finding Phillip Woods pacing the bowels of the Institute’s basement.