The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

I made my voice sturdy. “What do you want, Beverly?” “I think I’ve been clear, dumpling. I want Nick. Where is he? Tell me.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Look, honeybun. This is serious. He was supposed to be here. A long time ago. He hasn’t shown up, and I really can’t wait much longer.”

  “And I should care about that because ...?”

  “Because I’m worried. The roads are terrible. What time did he leave? He was supposed to be at my condo—”

  “Do you two always get together in the middle of the night?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? But often, yes. We’re both available around the clock, and he’s never kept me waiting before. Not like this, anyway. Look, cupcake, if he calls, tell him not to go to my condo. I can’t wait here anymore. I’ll be at the Institute. In my office. Got it?”

  The Institute? I began to say that it was an odd place for a late-night rendezvous. But she’d already hung up.

  FIFTY-THREE

  THERE WAS NO DOUBT ANYMORE, IF THERE HAD EVER BEEN. Nick had definitely gone to meet Beverly Gardener. He’d snuck out of bed with me in the middle of the night and driven back to town to be with her. It was incredible, hard to absorb, and humiliating but apparently true.

  What was I going to do about it? What could I do? I was stuck out in Chester County with Molly, who was sound asleep.

  After the phone call, I was spitting mad. I sat listening to sounds of the night, fuming. Feeling like a chump. The more I sat, the angrier I got. The isolation didn’t help. Was that the wind howling or the cry of a hungry wolf? Was it a tree branch scraping the window or the claw of some night creature?

  Stop it, I told myself. No one’s out there. It’s just your nerves. Still, I walked around in the dark, checking doors and windows, making sure they were locked. I checked on Molly every few minutes, comforted by the steady sound of her breath. I went up to the loft and peered out the window, feeling trapped and frantic. Furious at Nick for bringing us there, at myself for having come. Up in the loft, I stared out at the night. I lay down, tried to sleep, pictured Nick with Beverly, sat up, and stared out at the night again. I paced, went down to the main room, back up to the loft. Despite myself, I could see what he saw in her; the woman had charisma. She was a celebrity. But I asked myself over and over why Nick had taken us there if he’d wanted to be with Beverly. I had no answers and eventually got sick of asking. All I knew was that I wanted out. I wanted to go home.

  Finally, the sky began to lighten. It was almost dawn, and Nick was still gone. Downstairs again, I stopped pacing and stared at the front door. What was I supposed to do? Stay there all day and wait? The front door gave no reply.

  But Charlie did. “Get out, Miss Zoe!” I heard him wheeze. “Hurry up. Leave before it’s too late.”

  I didn’t argue. I wanted to get the hell out of there, not wait around to hear excuses and lies. But how was I supposed to leave? Nick had taken the car. Should I call a cab? Did they even have cabs way out in Chester County? At the crack of dawn?

  Finally, as the sun rose higher, I’d had enough. I wasn’t helpless, didn’t have to stay there waiting. I had options. The Volvo was gone, but Molly and I had legs. There were snowshoes in the shed. We could walk back to Philadelphia if we had to, or at least to a highway. I’d take the cell phone, and when we found a main road I’d call Susan and tell her where we were. She’d come and get us. Good. I felt better already; I wasn’t trapped. I had a plan.

  I gathered my clothing in a rush, but trembling, rushing, I had trouble putting it on. My feet kept missing, wouldn’t go into the leg holes of my jeans, got stuck halfway. The harder I shoved my feet into them, the more the fabric resisted. Finally, I gathered the material at the bottom and held it open, aiming my toes through the holes as if I were threading a needle. Calm down, I told myself. Find your socks. Put on your boots. My skin stung as my sweater rubbed spots Nick’s rough whiskers had scraped raw. Damn Nick. Cheating lying sonofabitch. Controlling manipulating two-faced bastard. Cursing him felt good. I straightened my sweater and smeared away angry tears with the back of my hand.

  Finally, my clothes were on. I was ready to go. All I had to do was bundle up Molly and get the snowshoes. Then we’d hit the road.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  MOLLY’S FIRST THOUGHT UPON WAKING WAS ABOUT HER tooth. It was still there, hanging tentatively to a few strands of tissue. Her second thought was of Nick.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Why not? Where’d he go?”

  “He went back to town. Here. Put your socks on.”

  “Why’d he go back to town?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “But Mommy, he said we could make banana pancakes. He promised.”

  “I know. Something came up. Here, pull this over the turtle-neck. It’s cold out.”

  “Can we make pancakes, Mommy?”

  “Maybe later. Not now. Now we’re going outside. Put your arm in.”

  “But Nick said—”

  “Mollybear, put your arm in the sleeve? Good.” “He said we could—”

  “For now, let’s fix just a snack, okay? We’ll see about pancakes later.”

  Finally, she was dressed. I made cinnamon toast and filled a thermos with hot cocoa for the road. I’d never walked in snow-shoes, had no idea if Molly would be able to. Maybe Nick had a sled. A sled would be much better, easier to negotiate.

  I looked out the kitchen window, squinting at the shed, searching, hoping to see a sled. Snow was falling in large, heavy flakes. The woodpile was already buried, a tiny lump on a blanket-covered mountain. I couldn’t see a sled, but there might be one out there. If there was no sled, we’d put on the snow-shoes and be on our way. I zipped Molly into her jacket and gazed outside, assessing the depth of the snow—and dimly, through the blizzard, I saw a bulky shape hunkering at the door of the shed. Forget the damned snowshoes, I thought. We had a better way to get home.

  It was sitting right there by the shed, a big yellow plow hooked up to its front end. I could drive a stick shift, could probably manage a pickup truck.

  I pulled on my jacket. Good. I had a new plan. First, we’d gather our bags and pack up our toast and cocoa. Then, we’d go out back, climb into that baby, start the engine, and roar the fuck out of there.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  GET THE KEYS, I TOLD MYSELF. BUT WHERE WERE THE KEYS? Were we never going to get out of there? Nick’s bags were scattered near the door. Maybe the keys were in there. Unless they were outside in the truck. Damn. I hadn’t seen keys when I’d looked through his stuff. Maybe they were hanging on a hook somewhere, or lying in a kitchen drawer.

  “What are you doing?” Molly watched me ransack Nick’s kitchen.

  “Looking for keys to Nick’s truck. We’re going for a ride.” “But I want to make a snowman. And a fort. And Nick said—”

  “Molly, sweetheart. We can do other stuff later. Help me find the keys.”

  I opened Nick’s overnight bag, found a sweater, jeans, a book. A holster. No keys. For the second time that night, I scanned the shelves, rifled through drawer after drawer, even opened a cookie jar. It contained cookies. While Molly ate one, I found a flashlight, candles, and a kerosene lamp, but no keys. I looked in nightstands, behind doors. In the broom closet, I found a shotgun and some shells; inside his shaving kit, a razor, a toothbrush, condoms, deodorant. No keys.

  Then, in the upstairs bathroom, the light revealed a piece of paper taped to the mirror. A note from Nick.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead. I didn’t want to wake you. I had to run an errand, but I’ll be back in time to make pancakes. I’ll bring the bananas. See you soon. Nick.”

  Good morning? When he’d written the note, he was planning to be gone all night. He hadn’t expected me to wake up and find him gone, hadn’t counted on Beverly calling again and again, waking me up. Filling me in. No, Nick had thought himself very clever, leaving a note that he’d gone out only to do an errand. A note that had been deliberately, care
fully written to deceive me. From a man who may have killed his wife. I shivered at the possibility. How sinister—how dangerous—was Nick? What kind of man was he? Damn him, anyway. I tore up the note, threw it into the toilet, and flushed, hoping it would stop up his plumbing. Flood the whole goddam place. But the note didn’t go down. Its pieces sat sodden, floating on the water.

  “Did you find them?” Molly called.

  The keys, I remembered. “No, not yet.”

  “Let’s face it, Mommy. They’re not here. Let’s just make a fort? Can we? Please?”

  I came downstairs. “Mollybear, don’t whine. Think. If we lived here, where would we keep the keys to our snowplow?”

  “Somewhere easy to find them.”

  “Right—someplace we could get to them quickly if it snowed really hard.”

  “Somewhere in the shed?”

  She was probably right. They must be in the shed. On a hook. Or in the truck itself.

  “Molly, you’re a genius.” I looked out at large, dense snowflakes, falling heavily in the eerie morning glow.

  Carrying the phone, our overnight bags, the thermos, and the flashlight, I took Molly by the hand and trudged outside. The sun hadn’t quite made it above the pine trees; snow and sky blended seamlessly, fading from ominous to forbidding shades of gray. The pines seemed nearer than before, closing in like the snow, and though I knew no one was among them, I didn’t look to the left or right, dreading what I might see. My eyes remained directly ahead, fixed on the swirling snow. We trekked through drifts, knee deep for me, hip high for Molly, grunting and panting through gusts of wind, tasting flakes that blew into our mouths, stopping several times for Molly to catch her breath or balance, for me to rearrange my load.

  Finally, we slid to a stop at the door of the shed. I dropped the bags and scanned the walls with the flashlight. There were hooks holding showshoes and bicycles, shovels and rakes. Hooks holding saws and axes and drills and hammers. But no hooks holding keys. Damn.

  “Where are they, Molly? Where would Nick keep his keys?” “Maybe inside the truck. In the glove compartment? Can I look, Mom?” She ran to the door of the truck. “Let me.”

  “Why can’t I? I thought of it.” “Molly, please don’t whine.” “But why can’t I?” She stopped whining. “Here, hold the thermos.”

  I climbed into the truck, leaned over the passenger seat, and reached inside. Maps. Headache pills. Kleenex. Candy bars. A yo-yo. Registration and insurance cards—a yo-yo?

  A yo-yo. It was red and blue, made of wood. Blinking at it, I stuffed everything back into the glove compartment, slammed it shut, and yanked my hand away. There wasn’t time to dwell on a yo-yo. The yo-yo didn’t matter. All that mattered was the keys.

  Still eyeing the glove compartment, I felt above the sun visor, under the driver’s seat. That’s where I found them, on the floor, under the seat. Next to the gun.

  I pulled my hand back as if from a fire.

  Of course, there was a gun under the driver’s seat. Nick was a cop; cops had guns. He probably kept them all over the place, under cushions, in the bread box. No big deal. Not for Nick.

  Just take the keys and go, I told myself. I reached under the seat and retrieved the keys.

  “Got ‘em,” I said, holding up the key ring.

  “Yeah, Mommy. You rule. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  “Let’s what?” Where did she get those expressions?

  She wiggled her tooth, shrugging. “Angela says that.”

  The ring held lots of keys. A dozen, at least. Lord. What were they all for? I climbed out, grabbed Molly, and hefted her up into the cab. As she climbed across to the passenger seat, I tossed in our bags and hopped up behind the wheel. I slid the driver’s seat forward so my feet could reach the pedals, aimed a key at the ignition, tried another and another until I found one that fit. Then I pushed down on the clutch, held down the brake, felt for a hand brake—was there a hand brake?—released what I thought was a hand brake, stepped on the gas, and turned the key. The engine sputtered and coughed. Then it died. Damn.

  “What’s wrong with the truck?” Molly wanted to know.

  Good question. Was the battery dead? Was it frozen? Was there any gas? “I don’t know.”

  “Do you even know how to drive a truck?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Then why isn’t it going?”

  “Molly. Give me a second, okay?”

  Try it again, I told myself. I turned the key. The engine gurgled. I stayed on the gas. It complained and it groaned, but it finally came to life. Molly gave it a round of applause.

  “I never rode in a truck before, Mommy.”

  “Me either.”

  “Then how do you know how to drive one?”

  Oops, she’d caught me. “It’s not that different from a car.”

  She pondered that.

  “Don’t worry, Mollybear. We’re fine.”

  She looked unconvinced but stopped chattering for a while.

  The truck forged slowly through the snow, grumbling loudly. Time to shift, I told myself. Shift. Remember how? I found the clutch, pushed down, pulled the stick—and cringed at the piercing screams of grinding metal. The truck lurched to a halt. Oops, I thought. The gears.

  “Mommy, what was that?” Molly cried.

  “It’s fine.” We weren’t even off of Nick’s driveway, and I’d already stalled. There was a lever in the car—connected to the plow? I pulled it, and the plow lowered into plowing position. Amazing. Something actually was working. Molly kept talking, giving me advice on how to drive.

  Start over, I told myself. Get the timing. Push down on the clutch. Now shift. Now accelerate. Now—slowly—release the clutch. Better. A bit of a jolt, but no screeches or stalls.

  For endless minutes, the truck snorted and chugged. At first, Molly reacted to each bump. She asked questions about how the plow worked, about Nick. She criticized my driving, cited Angela’s expert advice, and updated me on the status of her teeth, showing that another one was loose. As we chortled around curves, through hills, along walls of silent pines, she eventually leaned back in her seat and dozed. For miles, I drove randomly, with no idea where we were or how to get to a main road. My eyes darted around, checking the rearview mirror as if someone might be following, knowing that no one was. Finally, the winding side road reached an intersection. Not a major artery, but big enough to merit a stop sign. I turned onto it, heading east toward the rising glow in the sky. Chester County was west of the city. So I was headed in the right direction. Soon the sun was higher; shadows evolved into shapes. And the road led to Route 30. A familiar number. I took it. Snow coated the pavement, and the truck felt clumsy, drove heavily, sluggish with the weight of the plow, but when we hit 202 I knew my way. Even with the snow, we could make town in under an hour. We were on our way home. Whatever awful memories awaited me there, they were mine, and I’d deal with them in my way, on my own. I would face Charlie’s empty house and the truth about what had happened there. And if I had my way, I’d never hear of Nick Stiles or Beverly Gardener again.

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE ROAD WAS SLICK WITH SLUSH AND ICE. I SPED THROUGH A frigid landscape of hilly suburbs and industrial parks onto the Schuylkill Expressway. Molly slept while Nick’s truck roared like a beast, too loud for me to hear my own mind. I floored the pedal, surging ahead, slowing down for no one.

  Time hung suspended; distance was its only measure. Snowflakes swirled against the windshield, dissolving into droplets, getting wiped away. Wheels spun furiously under us while Molly and I sat motionless, waiting for the monotonous, interchangeable scenes out the window to pass, replaced by images of our destination. Of home. From now on, I’d rely on nobody, let no one too close. It would be just me and Molly. Molly and me. We were our whole family, didn’t need anyone else.

  At last, the Vine Street Expressway. At Sixth, I turned off and plowed south, literally. Not much traffic, due to the snow. A few pedestrians, up to th
eir knees. Arch, JFK, Market, Chestnut, Walnut. I pressed on steadily, unstoppably, toward our street, inch by inch, block by block.

  Finally, we approached our street. Everything was quiet, coated with white. Construction vehicles, cars, and vans lay buried, lifeless under mounds of snow. Behind Mr. Woods’s snow-blocked window, Santa throbbed like a painful wound; in Victor’s upstairs window, the blinds were shut tight but oddly askew. Charlie’s house looked mournful, drooping yellow tape separating it from the street, snow hanging heavily on its roof. The street seemed off balance and bruised, but even so, I was glad to be there. We were home.

  I hadn’t thought of parking when I’d taken the truck. Finding a spot wouldn’t be easy. Except that I was driving a damn snow-plow. No one would argue with a double-parked snowplow. Not today. I parked alongside one of Jake’s trucks and woke up Molly.

  “Mollybear, we’re home.”

  She opened her eyes, blinked, and looked around. I gathered our bags and went around the truck to help her out. When I came around and opened her door, she was busy with her tooth.

  “Hop out,” I said.

  “Huh-uh.” She shook her head, still wiggling. “Come on, Molly, let’s—”

  “Aach!” Eyes wide, Molly held out a tiny, blood-coated kernel. “Your tooth!”

  She grinned, revealing a blank space in her ravaged gums. Blood trickled along her fingers and over her teeth. As she noticed, her chin began to wobble; her eyes filled with alarm.

  “It’s okay—you’ll be fine.” I kissed her, then searched for some white snow and packed a snowball. “Try this. Press it onto your gum.”

  “Bite it?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’ll get all bloody.”

  “It’ll stop the bleeding.” We traded. She took the snowball, and I took her first lost tooth and placed it safely in a tissue in my pocket. Then I reached out to lift her out of the cab. Just then, Phillip Woods’s door swung open. I expected to see him emerge with a shovel or a snow blower, prepared to clear his front walk.