The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  “Somebody’s knockin’. Somebody’s knockin’.” I recognized the song. An oldie, recorded by Terri Gibbs. It was about the devil. About choices, giving in or resisting sin. I made a note on her chart, even wrote down the words as she sang them.

  “Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him? I’ve heard about him . . . But I never dreamed . . . he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans.”

  Evie’s voice was clear and, in contrast to her imposing size and tattooed limbs, surprisingly sweet. I was thrilled to hear it and told her so. She looked my way but didn’t respond. She just kept singing. “He must have tapped my telephone line. He must have known I’m spendin’ my time alone.”

  Working with pastel oil sticks, she drew a pink door, just the door, no house or building attached. The door was locked, padlocked in vivid purple. She sang and hummed as she worked, the same song. Over and over. “Somebody’s knockin’. Should I let him in? Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him?” On and on. Over and over. When her session ended, she was still singing. After she was gone, for the rest of the day and well into the night, her song remained in my head, an endless loop of melody and words.

  Finally, it was time to go home. I grabbed a taxi, puzzling over Beverly Gardener’s morning visit. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Who’d given Beverly Gardener the right to claim Nick as her personal property? And what made her think she could order me off? Thinking about her made my head throb. Evie’s devil song didn’t help, beating over and over in my mind. The cab headed across town through a drizzling, ominous dusk, and I rubbed my temples, eager to get home, lock the door, and settle in for the night.

  But—oh damn—it was Thursday. Gymnastics night—the mothers’ meeting. Susan was bringing whistles; we were going to organize and plan ways to protect our nannies and our neighborhoods. Like starting a town watch, a buddy system. Arming the nannies with cell phones and maybe Mace. Discussing Angela’s kickboxing classes, the possibility that her instructor could start a nanny program. Maybe I’d alert the others to the details of Beverly Gardener’s profile. Damn, there she was again, Beverly Gardener, brazenly intruding into my thoughts. Claiming her turf, clinging to Nick’s arm. I closed my eyes, erasing the image, and kept humming Evie’s song.

  By the time the cab pulled up to the house, the sky was dark and the drizzle had turned to glassy sleet. Even so, I sprinted up to the door without slipping. Thanks to Jake’s guys, my steps had been freshly salted.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “DON’T HANG UP.“

  I was changing, getting ready for gymnastics, when Michael called.

  “I can’t talk now, Michael.” Or ever, for that matter.

  “Look, that stuff about no more Mr. Nice Guy? I got pissed. You frustrated me and I lost my temper. But you know it was all smoke.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Michael. Stop pushing.” “Pushing? Oh, you think I’m calling about Nana’s ring? No, Zoe, I’m calling because I’m worried about you.”

  “Really.”

  “Christ,” he sighed. “You bet I am, with you and your kid all alone right where all those single women are disappearing.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not single; I’m divorced.”

  “You think some lunatic’s going to make the distinction? You’re an unattached woman, that’s all that matters.”

  “They were all nannies or babysitters, Michael. Not moms.”

  He paused; I was sure he was thinking, “Well, you’re not really Molly’s mom—she’s adopted.” But he didn’t say it. Didn’t dare. “The latest one disappeared right around the corner from you. On Lombard.”

  “I heard.” I pulled on a pair of loose corduroy pants.

  “How can you be so nonchalant?”

  “I’m not. But it’s not like I can do anything about it.” Why was he trying to upset me? “Look, I really can’t talk now.”

  “I’m serious, Zoe. Nobody knows if this maniac does strictly babysitters. How big a leap is it from a babysitter to an unmarried woman caring for a kid?”

  “Thanks, Michael. That makes me feel real safe.”

  “I don’t mean to alarm you. I’m just concerned.”

  “That’s sweet. But you don’t need to be. And, like I said, I’ve got to go.”

  “What, you got a hot date or somethin’?” His tone was sarcastic, as if the idea were absurd. There was a tiny, awkward pause while he realized that, oh, maybe it wasn’t so absurd; maybe Zoe actually did have a hot date. “Oh, hey. Do you? Is it the same guy? From the other night?” He couldn’t help it, had to ask, and I couldn’t help responding with silence, even though I had nobody to go out with. Nick appeared on the bed, his head on Michael’s pillow. I blinked him from my mind.

  “Well, good for you. So. Is he as good-looking as I am?”

  “Don’t even start, Michael.” I fluffed the pillow, smoothed the comforter.

  Molly wandered in, dressed for gymnastics. “I’m ready, Mommy,” she announced.

  “Michael, chatting with you is grand, but I really have to go.”

  “Okay, then—oh, by the way, have you thought any more about the ring?” He strained to sound casual.

  “Actually, no.”

  “Because I’ll give you five thousand for it. You can buy yourself a great new ring for that.”

  Was he serious? He sounded desperate, and I felt sorry for him. But I wasn’t going to let him pressure or manipulate me. Not again.

  “Or—have it appraised. I’ll pay whatever they say. How about it?”

  Women were disappearing, and all Michael could think about was getting a diamond ring. I looked at the clock; it was time to leave. “Let’s talk later, Michael.”

  “It’s a fair deal, Zoe. I’m not cheating you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Michael, I’m late.” “Okay, okay. But—Zoe?”

  “What?” If he mentioned the ring again, I was going to slam the phone down.

  “Just... be careful, okay?”

  I was touched. Michael was genuinely concerned about me. “Thanks. I will.”

  “And think about the ring? Like I said, I’ll go as high as the appraiser says.”

  Before he could say another word, I hung up, breaking the connection, wishing it could be that simple.

  THIRTY-SIX

  EVEN WITH THE BAD WEATHER, GYMNASTICS CLASS WAS packed. All the moms showed up, even Leslie. Pale and thin, she seemed to have lost weight in just days. She hadn’t answered her phone or returned calls all week. But she’d shown up for the meeting. And I was glad to see her. “Are you managing okay?” I asked her.

  “You should go to your mother-in-law’s place in Florida,” Karen advised. “Get some sun for a few days. Thaw out.”

  “I can’t. It’d probably rain and I’d be stuck inside with Billy and my mother-in-law.”

  There were sympathetic chuckles. “Well, we’re glad you’re here.”

  “Besides, Florida wouldn’t be an escape. Tamara’d still be gone no matter where I went.” “But you’d get a change of scene.”

  Leslie shook her head. “You don’t leave your head behind. Trouble travels with you.”

  Charlie whispered for me to go home and stay there. I shrugged him away, but he was in my head. Like trouble.

  “Leslie, you should get some pills—Zoloft or Paxil. Ask your doctor. You don’t have to feel so bad, even with all that’s happened.” Davinder was the local expert on prescription drugs.

  “Yeah, I know,” Leslie sighed. “But pills won’t change the truth. Those poor girls. And Tamara—I really miss her. I really, really do.”

  “Oh, come on,” Gretchen piped up. “Let’s stop concentrating on the bleak side. Life could be a whole lot worse.” She smiled, pleased, as if she thought she’d said something helpful.

  With that, Susan cleared her throat and stood to begin the meeting. “Well, it looks like most everyone’s here, so let’s get started. Why don’t we
begin by brainstorming? List everything we’ve thought of to do, and then form a committee to follow up on each? I’ll read my list to start with, and then we can add other ideas.”

  The discussion took off, women sharing ideas, uniting their efforts, combining their strengths. We formed six committees. I’d volunteered as a block captain for town watch and as cochair with Gretchen to set up a buddy program, so young women wouldn’t travel the neighborhood alone. Finally, with committees defined, deadlines set up and sign-up sheets posted, Susan handed out whistles and we began stringing them on necklaces.

  “Is there any more news about Tamara?” Karen asked.

  Leslie shook her head. “The police don’t tell us anything. To them, she’s just one of the missing nannies.”

  “They weren’t all nannies, you know. That fourth one was actually the mother, not a sitter. She’d adopted a baby from China.”

  I tensed, listening.

  “Really? Well, that breaks the pattern, doesn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily. The mom was blonde and fair. The baby was Chinese, so she didn’t look like her mother. Plus, the mom was young, in her twenties. The killer probably thought she was a nanny.”

  “Killer? Why’d you say ‘killer’? Do we actually know that they’re dead? I mean, they haven’t found any bodies, have they?”

  “Who knows what they’ve found?” Susan said, her eyes meeting mine. “They’re probably withholding a lot of what they know, so they don’t tip the guy off.”

  I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Not just nannies were victims. Adoptive mothers might be targets, too. I wasn’t going to mention the garbage bag or fingers. Neither, apparently, was Susan.

  On the other side of the glass, Coach Gene cheerfully demonstrated a cartwheel on the balance beam. Kids in leotards bounced on trampolines, did flips on uneven parallel bars. I envied their innocence, their glee.

  Gretchen opened a box of homemade Christmas cookies. “Okay, we have our plan. Now let’s cut the glumness. Help yourselves.” She took a star coated with green sugar. We passed the rest around, and for a while we munched and talked, trying to be normal. A cheery tape of “Jingle Bells” drifted in from the gym, the music, the conversation as weightless as snowflakes. But, instead of mistletoe and holly on the walls, we hung alarm whistles on string.

  “Peas?” I heard Davinder ask. “Your kids eat peas?”

  “They love peas. Frozen, straight from the box, like candy. Or in tuna, or with rotini and cheese.”

  I wandered off and sat by the observation window, watching the children practice, listening to the lulling rhythm, the gentle flow of women’s chatter. After a while, Leslie drifted over and sat beside me, staring quietly at her knees. She was deeply depressed about Tamara. I thought about suggesting help, offering her a referral, but then Karen joined us.

  “Is Billy okay, Leslie?” she asked.

  The voice startled her, bringing her back. “Huh?”

  “I wondered if he’s changed. You know, his sleeping or eating. Sometimes with kids, that’s the only way to tell if something’s wrong. Emotionally. I mean. He must be a mess with Tamara being gone and you and his dad being so upset—”

  Karen stopped midsentence. The interruption wasn’t a noise or even a gasp; it was a sudden, pervasive silence. Leslie spun around to face the door. Everyone froze as the stranger entered and scanned the room. I looked up and, in the instant before he saw me, I had just enough time to recognize Charlie—and the fact that he was carrying a gun.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  UNSHAVEN, UNKEMPT, HIS FRAYED JACKET HANGING LOOSELY over grease-stained pants, Charlie shuffled in. Dark circles ringed his red, strained eyes, and he spoke slowly, as if no one were in the room but the two of us.

  “Don’t you worry, miss,” he said. “I told you I’d protect you.”

  Susan stepped directly in front of him. She was accustomed to guns and criminals. “What do you think you’re doing, sir?” she stared at him, ignoring the gun.

  Charlie stepped back and closed the observation room door, shoving a chair under the doorknob. “Step back, ma’am. Don’t interfere. I’m here to help.”

  Susan spoke calmly, as if men wandered in carrying guns all the time. “Well, you have to put the gun away. There are children—”

  Charlie scowled as he aimed the gun right at her. “Who are you? Mind your business. I’ve got to talk to Miss Zoe.”

  I ran over and stood between them. “Charlie, what are you doing? You can’t just point a gun at people. These are my friends.”

  He waved the gun toward the window. “Let’s go over there and talk, Miss Zoe.” Charlie limped along, guiding me back across the room, wheezing as he stepped around chairs. Women huddled close, wide-eyed and silent.

  “What the hell is this, Charlie?” I asked. “What’s the gun for?”

  “Protection, miss. I told you. You’re in danger. But don’t worry. I’m here for you and the little girl.”

  Behind him, Susan pointed and waved, trying to send me some message I couldn’t decode.

  “You’ll scare the children, Charlie. Put the gun away.”

  “I can’t do that, miss. I followed you all the way over here. I believe you’re next, see. It could happen any time. Just sit down and listen to what I have to say.”

  The gun pointed at my belly. No one had ever pointed a gun at me before. The muzzle looked cold and indifferent. I watched it warily and sat.

  Coughing and hacking, Charlie peered through the glass at the children. Then he perched on the windowsill, facing me. I looked past him, searching for Molly, locating her in line for the vaulting horse, her back to us.

  “The rest of you just go about your normal business,” Charlie commanded. “And nobody open that door.”

  Nobody moved. Women whispered, the tape of “Jingle Bells” repeated automatically, my heart pounded, and Charlie wheezed. But nobody moved.

  “Please don’t be afraid of me, miss,” Charlie instructed. “The gun’s for your protection. I can’t sit by and watch anymore. I told you I’d protect you, and I will.”

  Behind Charlie, Gretchen and Davinder formed a wall around Susan, who was making hand signals at the observation window. She pointed at Charlie, miming that he had a gun. I prayed that if any of the instructors could see her, they’d get the message and get help.

  “Miss, you haven’t been careful. You’ve let evil get too close. I warned you—I told you he disguises himself. Why didn’t you listen? He isn’t sure how much I know, or I wouldn’t be here. But I’ve seen things, his comings and goings. I’m the handyman. I have all the keys, see. And I have his brainwaves, see. I fixed the wiring. Reversed it, so I could read his thoughts, find out his plans.”

  I tried to make my voice sound calm. As long as he kept talking, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. “You know his plans?”

  He wheezed, then coughed deeply. Fire burned deep in his eyes. Sweat droplets swelled on his forehead. He leaned forward and enunciated more carefully, as if that would help me understand.

  “I’ve told you. He won’t stop. He’s killed all those girls and he needs more. A fresh supply for his work.”

  Sitting behind Charlie, Leslie began to twitch. Her eyebrow flicked spasmodically. Her knee bounced involuntarily. I wondered if she was having a seizure. I looked at Karen. Her lips mouthed a silent question. “Who is he?”

  “All those young women. Dead. So much waste—”

  “Who’s dead? What young women are dead?” Leslie cut in. “What’s he saying?”

  Charlie didn’t respond. He went on, “See, the women weren’t blood. They had false bonds, no true connections. That’s why they had to die.”

  Leslie asked again, “Who? Who had to die? Answer me—”

  I shook my head, trying to quiet her. Karen touched her arm. Behind them, blocked by Davinder, Susan continued miming that we’d been visited by a man with a gun.

  Charlie continued. “But the work’s not done yet. Life and death, love
and hate, Satan and the Lord God. Everything’s the same to him. He spits at it all, pastes it all together as a circle. His work is evil, Miss Zoe. And evil feeds on itself, begets more evil. It’s an endless cycle. He’ll go on killing until somebody stops him.”

  Leslie panted, “He means Tamara? The nannies? They’re dead? How does he know that?”

  Charlie gazed through the window. I looked out and saw Molly take a running jump and leap over the horse, clearing it by inches. Landing, she turned to see if I was watching.

  Amazingly, I was. I even smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, just as if nothing were wrong. She grinned proudly and was moving on to the parallel bars when, beside me, Karen suddenly stiffened. Somebody shrieked. And Leslie tackled Charlie from behind, grabbing for the gun.

  “You sonofafuckingbitch! You killed them—”

  Fearless, maddened, she clawed at him. When the gun went off, the bang was deafening.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHUNKS OF DRYWALL FLEW THROUGH THE AIR, AND A HOLLOW ringing muffled all other sounds. Leslie stopped in midair, her face distorted in disbelief. Then she sank to her knees on the floor. Children turned to face the window; women shrieked. Karen and Ileana ran over to Leslie and held her, looking for wounds. Leslie hadn’t been hit, but she gulped air, yelping like a wounded dog. In the gym, children froze, staring at the observation room window, large eyes searching for their mothers.

  Charlie got to his feet, holding the gun in the air. “Everybody calm down, now.” He wheezed through the ringing sound. “I don’t want anybody hurt.” His voice broke into a fit of coughing. “Sit down, please,” he continued. “I’m here for Miss Zoe. But I’ll take care of all of you, all of you.”

  Coach Gene pounded on the door. “Everything okay in there? Open the door.”