The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries)

by Merry Jones

  “Ivy, can I help you?”

  She stepped forward, met me at the bottom of the steps. “Where’s my key? It wasn’t in its place.”

  I hesitated, confused. What would she want with the key? Was it possible she didn’t grasp the fact that she’d been told not to come back? I tried to sound calm, make my voice steady. “It’s not your key, Ivy. It’s ours. And remember, you’re not working here now.”

  Her eyes darted to the door and the fake rock near the planter, avoiding mine. “But I could be working—”

  “We decided you should take a break.”

  “I want to see the kids. I take good care of them—”

  “Ivy. Please. You need to go.” She didn’t seem to understand her situation. Maybe she was even less stable than I’d thought.

  “No, see, you need to listen to me. I’ve been here since that baby was born. I’ve been taking care of him and Molly all this time, and then—you have a hissy fit and tell me to take off? How come you think you can do that?”

  Oh Lord. Poor Ivy might be off-kilter, but she was clearly attached to the kids, bereft without them. I tried to be kind but firm. “Ivy. I paid you for the next two weeks, and we said we could talk again after—”

  “Talk? You took those children away. Is that fair?” She was hollering now, holding her stomach with one arm, gesturing with the other. White foam coated her lips; she looked rabid, almost like she was having a seizure. “After all the care I gave them, all the meals I fixed, the walks I took them on and the sniffles I dried and the diapers I changed, after everything I did for them, you think I should just get lost? No way. I take good care of those children. They love me. Now, what did you do with my key?”

  “Ivy.” She was over the edge. I had to be patient and speak slowly or she’d never get it. “Okay. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to come back in two weeks, after all. Let’s call this relationship over, okay? You’re fired.”

  “Wait, I’m what? You think you can fire me? You can’t—”

  “Oh yes, I can. It isn’t open for discussion.” That’s right; be firm, I urged myself. Ivy looked lost, indignant, but I was a therapist, knew not to enable her behavior. I had to be consistent, clear and calm. Leave no room for distortion. “We no longer need your assistance here.” I turned to go back into the house.

  But before I could get inside, Ivy dashed up the steps and grabbed my arm. “They do, too, need me. The kids need me.” Her eyes were desperate. I didn’t understand why she was behaving so bizarrely; her job must have meant a lot more to her than I’d imagined.

  Still, I was not going to be bullied into rehiring her. She was obviously unbalanced. How had I not seen that before? “Ivy, I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. Good luck.” I took my hand from hers and stepped back inside the house, wondering if I should recommend a therapist.

  Ivy didn’t move. “Okay,” she called after me. “We’ll do what we said. I’ll call you next week. Monday morning. I can start then.”

  I started to say that no, she should not come back, that she’d been fired. But she whirled around and sped away, and she didn’t look back.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  ANNA EAGERLY ACCEPTED WHEN I asked her to watch the kids for the week. The more control over our lives she had, the happier she seemed. By the time Susan came by at ten- thirty for our girls’ day, Anna had pretty much rearranged Luke’s room and started to reorganize Molly’s.

  “You look wired.” Susan pulled away from the curb, assessing me. “What did you do, stick your finger in an electric socket?”

  Susan was unfailingly honest. “I don’t need sockets. I have my life. Ivy was just here—she refuses to be fired.”

  “Poor Ivy. She doesn’t want your stinking job. She wants to be you. She wants your life.”

  “Right now, she can have it.”

  “Now, now. Don’t even joke about that. You’d never give up Nick and Molly and Luke. You’re just going through a rough spot. And this day is the antidote for rough spots. It’s an anti-stress, celebrate-the-moment day. Let’s have fun.”

  Fun? What an alien concept. “Sorry. I don’t know how to do ‘fun.’ All I do is nurse and wipe up puppy piddle. And bloodstains.”

  “That’s why you need to get spoiled for a day.”

  I was ready to strangle her. “Stop being so cheerful, would you?”

  She stopped at a light and turned to me, sighing. “Zoe, you’re not going to believe me, but listen anyhow. Luke won’t be an infant much longer. In an eyeblink, he’ll stop nursing, and your hormones will settle down. Your body will be yours again. Your wedding a memory. The brothers will go home and the puppy will get housebroken. The horrible murder will be history. Life will calm down and move ahead, and you will wake up one morning and wonder where the time went. You’ll long for these days.”

  I would? What? I didn’t respond, couldn’t. What Susan was saying was absurd.

  “So, relax. It’s your first day away from Luke. Enjoy it.”

  Oh dear—she was right. It was my first day away from Luke. And, to emphasize that point, at the thought of him my nipples dribbled. Perfect. I’d go to the spa drenched in milk. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me. I even think of the baby, I even hear his name, and I gush.”

  Susan laughed, nodding knowingly.

  “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I feel like a milk machine, constantly spouting and dripping.”

  “Zoe. You feel like a milk machine because you are one. But it passes. Trust me, before you know it, Luke will be done with your breasts and chugging beer.”

  I pictured it, little Luke, swaddled and diapered, holding a beer can.

  “Today, just for a few hours, forget what Luke needs; forget what Molly needs. Forget the wedding, the murder. Forget Bryce’s hit-and-run. Just think about Zoe and live the moment. Okay?”

  How generous Susan was. I smiled, and our eyes met. Friends. We drove for a while in comfortable, peaceful silence. But as Susan pulled into the spa parking lot, she broke the stillness.

  “Oh, Zoe, I almost forgot—I found the perfect blue lace handkerchief. If you borrow it, it can be both the borrowed thing and the blue thing. But Anna says they really should be two separate things, you know, one borrowed, one blue. So I’m thinking you should wear my sapphire earrings and the hankie. That gives you two of both—then either way you cut it, you’re covered. Or, if you want to use the earrings as blue, you can borrow an ivory hankie—”

  She described alternatives, including choices for a new or old silver dollar in my shoe, until we were inside the spa and changing into our terry cloth robes. And while I couldn’t pay close attention to her every word, I didn’t tune her out, either. The sound of Susan’s voice was cheery and enthusiastic, and I heard it not as conversation but as a refreshing melody or a rhythmic spiritual. Or even a team cheer.

  FIFTY-SIX

  THE NEXT HOURS WERE time away. I lay in semi-darkness, eyes closed, smelling fragrant oils and incense, hearing soothing tones of sitar music as skilled hands made mush out of my tensions, pressing and kneading the pain out of places I hadn’t even known were sore. The masseur rubbed spots on my feet that felt connected to my stomach or my back, and places on my head that connected to my feet. When he was finished, I lay limp, my muscles empty and somehow cleansed. And then, after a cup of healing tea and a warm shower, I met Susan in another room where our feet and fingers were soaked, rubbed and scraped, our nails buffed and painted. From there, we got our hair washed, trimmed and blown dry. And finally, it was time for our catered lunch. Still in our robes, we sat in plush cushioned chairs beside a gas-lit fireplace and ordered chicken walnut salads with croissants with iced green tea.

  “Well? How do you feel?” Susan was pleased; she knew the answer.

  “Tingly. Glowing all over. Thank you. This day has been incredible.”

  “We should do this more often. Every few weeks.”

  Every day would be fine with me
.

  Susan wanted to know about my massage, the details of what felt best. I was still too relaxed to feel like talking, so Susan carried the conversation by herself. She told me how she carried stress in her lower back and was sure that the whole spa had heard her moaning as Armando worked there. She admired my haircut, suggested that I color away my strands of gray, wondered if I thought she should have hers cut shorter than chin length. By the time the chicken salad arrived, she’d discussed her kids’ and husband’s lack of enthusiasm for household chores, and was voicing her desire for a professional wife, someone to organize and manage her home.

  “I mean Tim and I both have demanding careers. And when I get home, I have to cook and clean—the cleaning people don’t do it properly. And I have to do everything a mom does, help with homework, arrange dentist appointments, drive to swim practice. I’m a cliché. I’m Supermom, and that’s so nineties. I mean it. It’s the twenty-first century, and I need to hire a wife.”

  “Why a wife, not a husband? Why do you assume it’s a woman’s job to do all that?”

  She sipped iced tea. “Get real, Zoe. The last thing I need is another man. Look what goes on in your house with the triplets there. Men are basically useless in the home. It’s always been and always will be the woman’s job to run the family and the house. It’s biological. We evolved that way from caveman times. Men do the hunting and gathering; women keep the hearth.”

  Whatever. I didn’t care, didn’t think it mattered. My body was still too happy, my brain too empty for gender role discussions.

  “Which brings up the subject of Ivy.”

  It did?

  “What are you going to do to replace her?”

  I had no idea. “Anna’s filling in.”

  “But next week?”

  Oh Lord. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t wanted to. And Ivy had promised to show up next week. “I don’t know.”

  “Be careful, Zoe. Ivy was way too into your business. And although I love Anna, for such a pint-sized person, she’s kind of pushy.”

  Really? You couldn’t fool Susan.

  “But never mind.” She stretched, catlike. “Ivy’s history, and next week you’ll have your house to yourself again.”

  I imagined the house with just Nick and the kids and me and smiled. No more living in a fraternity. No more cigar butts on my ceramic plates. No more beer bottles lining my kitchen counters. No more daily pizza deliveries or randomly dumped piles of dirty clothes or late-night barhopping.

  Susan forked chicken salad into her mouth. “I bet you’ll miss those guys. They’re like big hunky teddy bear triplets.”

  Quadruplets. I thought of Eli as I chewed a walnut.

  “Who knew when you met Nick that he had clones?”

  “But they’re not like Nick.” Maybe it would help to talk to her about them. “Those guys, they’re—different than he is.”

  Susan buttered her croissant, frowning as if I’d said something stupid. “Of course they are.”

  I thought about answering, telling her how Sam’s business dealings seemed shady, how Tony had been behaving oddly, sneaking around the house ever since the murder. That Eli had snuck around in the dark carrying a knife, that Sam packed a gun. My suspicions lined up in single file in my head, preparing to pour out. But, somehow, all I poured was more iced tea. My mouth didn’t release them, not one. In fact, it didn’t open at all, except to let in more food. Talking took far too much effort for my currently limp and completely relaxed brain. Instead, I let myself appreciate the sensations in my body parts. All of them, head to toe, felt alert and alive. A ring of energy seemed to surround me, cushioning me like a corona. I was wrapped in soft terry cloth, listening to timeless music, tasting flavorful food. My best friend was beside me, and my life, my heart, were full of love and promise.

  Susan eyed me, munching croissant, talking while she chewed. “What’s wrong, Zoe? Stop worrying about Nick’s brothers. True, Sam’s kind of pushy, but hell. It’s not like you’re marrying him.

  Although, from what Anna said, we’re about the only women who haven’t. How many exes does he have—four?”

  I smiled at Susan, not even thinking about answering her question. I was admiring the sparkle of her eyes and healthy shine of her neatly trimmed hair. I took another sip of cool tea and savored the butter melting on my flaky croissant. For once, I realized, I was living in the moment. I really was. And for that moment, even if it wasn’t going to last, I understood the word bliss.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  BUT BLISS, LIKE EVERYTHING else, passes. An hour later, we picked up Emily and Molly at school and Susan drove us home.

  “Can we play, Mom?”

  “Can I go to Molly’s?”

  Susan looked at me for approval, and I nodded. Of course they could. “We can only stay about an hour, Em. I have to get home.”

  So, after Susan shimmied her BMW SUV into a tiny spot between a pickup truck and a Dumpster, the four of us filed into the house, where Oliver ran in circles, yipping with joy at our arrival. I heard Luke’s wails as soon as the door opened, and Anna was waiting, pacing the hall with Luke, who was inconsolable.

  “He’s been impatient.” Anna handed him to me. “I told him his mama had other things to do today than feed him, and I’m sorry, but he doesn’t approve. When you’re finished, I have a list of phone messages for you. And a wine list for final approval.”

  I reached for him, my breasts overflowing after our longest separation of his lifetime. I sat on the easy chair while Luke nursed; the girls scampered off to Molly’s room, and Anna and Susan sat on the sofa deep in muted conversation until Molly ran downstairs, red cheeked with excitement.

  “Announcing, for the first time ever in Philadelphia, The Em- Molly Show. Come one, come all. Five minutes until showtime.” And she ran back upstairs.

  “The what?” Anna seemed confused.

  “They do this,” Susan explained. “They put on shows. You know, sing and dance.”

  “How very creative.” Anna approved.

  I agreed. “They plan them for hours. They make props and scenery; they argue about who’ll do what; they rehearse.”

  Susan nodded. “The actual show is the smallest part of the process. After all the preparation, it lasts like—what, Zoe? Thirty seconds?”

  Luke had fallen asleep, so I brought him to his portable cradle in the dining room. But I didn’t put him down right away. I was still tingling from the massage, as if my nerves had been dusted and every sensation was more vivid and intense. I stood, holding Luke, watching his tiny mouth still sucking, even in sleep. His skin, his texture and smell mesmerized me, and having been away from him for six hours, I felt like a drunkard who’d waited all day for a nip and was unwilling to leave the bar. Finally, I put him down and covered him, but I lingered, staring at him, marveling at the power he had over me. What was it? I couldn’t get enough of him, even when I was exhausted. When I looked at him, sometimes my teeth actually hurt, aching to chew his fleshy cheeks and bulbous thighs, nibble his belly. To eat him up. Suddenly, I thought of Bonnie Osterman.

  Oh God—Bonnie Osterman. That’s what she had done—eaten up babies. Literally. But there was no connection between the way I felt and what she’d done. I would never really bite Luke. I might nuzzle him and rub my face into his tummy, but I’d never actually nip him, much less chew on him. Still, I wondered. That urge— the almost primal compulsion to clamp my jaws around my infant’s body—was it the same one that had compelled Bonnie Osterman? Had her impulse to devour babies merely been a perversion of a basic maternal drive? And if so, were her crimes somehow more understandable? Less grotesque?

  No. I wasn’t going to think about Bonnie Osterman. Nothing about her or her crimes was understandable, and there was no connection between us. I would not remember her squat form darting after me, questioning me at the Institute, asking about my pregnancy; nor would I consider the possibility that she’d run a car into Bryce Edmond. I closed my eyes, r
efusing her image access to my mind, and I ran a finger along the curve of Luke’s cheek, trying to absorb the peace that embraced him. But commotion interrupted. Oliver ran down the steps, barking, and footsteps pounded and furniture scraped the hardwood floors, being moved.

  “Mom!”

  “Coming.” I pulled myself away from Luke and started down the hall.

  “Mom—where are you? We’re ready!”

  “Coming,” I repeated, but Emily spoke at the same time.

  “Molly, no, we’re not either ready.” She sounded panicked.

  “Come on, Emily. Yes, we are.”

  “No—if one of us says she’s not ready, then the other one has to listen.”

  Oliver was running in circles, yapping, as I approached the living room. The girls stood in the hallway, face-to-face. They wore matching pink leotards from gymnastics class, and they’d put glitter in their hair and green shadow above their eyes. Emily wore a chiffon scarf around her neck; Molly held a baton.

  “Okay, Emily. How are we not ready?” Molly put a hand on her hip.

  “Because we didn’t rehearse enough.” Emily was adamant.

  “But remember, Em? That’s why we picked these routines. Because we did all of them before, so we already know them,” Molly urged her. “It’s just a different order.”

  “But wait. Your mom’s not even here—”

  “Yes, I am. I’m here.” I hurried past them into the living room.

  Emily turned to me, pouting.

  “Come on, Em. We’re ready.”

  Emily sulked, not moving.

  “Come and sit, Zoe. Have a snack.” Susan moved over, making room for me on the couch. Apparently, while I’d been with Luke, Susan and Anna had been to the kitchen. The coffee table, moved to the side of the room to make way for the “stage,” displayed bowls of store-bought salsa and artichoke dip, a basket of chips and several cans of soda.

  “Emily, get it moving.” Susan clapped her hands. “It’s now or never. We’ve got to get home.”