Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  It was getting dark when, sporting a straight mid-calf black skirt, a gray silk blouse, black flats, and the smallest, plainest earrings I had, I approached the Eldridges’ stately brownstone. Only after I rang the doorbell did I allow myself to consider the fact that I was about to meet with two people either of whom, for all I knew, might be a cold-blooded killer.

  Like most brownstones on Hoboken’s tree-lined Hudson Street, the Eldridges’ home was an imposing four-story row house built about a hundred and fifty years ago for a wealthy burgher and his family. The logo of a local security system in the corner of the etched glass windowpane of the oak door struck an incongruous note. The ornately carved door itself was massive. It dwarfed the petite woman who answered it at the first ring. I don’t know how she had managed to hear the chime over the earsplitting shrieks of an infant in some distress, shrieks that became painfully audible as soon as the door was opened.

  The woman was in her early thirties. Her thick dark hair was pulled back from her thin face, narrowing her red-rimmed eyes while accentuating her cheekbones and aquiline nose. She wore black pants and a black vest over a tangerine silk pullover. A tangerine-and-black scarf floated at her neck. Tangerine Arché slingbacks completed her outfit. After hesitating a moment, she took my outstretched hand in her small, cold one and pumped it hard. She made no attempt to hide the appraising once-over she was giving me as she spoke, and I reminded myself that she earned a substantial living in the personnel business. “How do you do, Ms. Mason. I’m Davida Guzman-Eldridge.”

  “Sorry, but I can hardly hear you,” I said, cupping my ear. The shrieks seemed to come from several directions, as if there were a baby in every room in the house and they were all wailing in unison. The screeching chorus continued as Davida grabbed my jacket and hung it on the Victorian coat rack in the hallway. Beckoning me to follow her, she led the way up the first flight of stairs.

  The dark wood of the banister was smooth beneath my hand. Lustrous oil paintings of insects hung on the oak-paneled wall of the stairwell and begged for closer inspection. But my guide was tripping effortlessly ahead to what looked like the parlor floor, and I had all I could do to make even a pretense of keeping up. I gave up the pretense as she neared the next landing, where presumably the bedrooms were and where the shrieking grew louder. I was moving so slowly that I could count the books on the bookshelves in one of the rooms flanking the stairs. It was not a bedroom but a spacious home office. In the other room I caught a glimpse of a NordicTrack and a free-weight machine. The bedrooms were undoubtedly on the top floor in what used to be the servants’ quarters. No wonder Davida was slender. She had to climb these three killer flights of stairs before she could lie down.

  Just as my heartbeat began to rival the pathetic caterwauling, we reached the fourth floor. I followed Davida into the room at the head of the stairs, where a tall bespectacled man with a modish stubble shadowing his sallow face hunched over a small screaming bundle cradled in his long arms. He was pacing rapidly back and forth. Davida began to pace at his side, desperately sticking things into the bundle’s open mouth, first a bottle, next a pacifier, finally a teething ring. The baby did not accept any of these oral offerings, but rather let them fall to the floor. Torrence accelerated his pace. Davida retrieved the rejected objects and then moved alongside him, her shorter legs taking two steps to his every one. They both looked prepared to continue this frenzied fandango indefinitely.

  Without thinking, I tapped the man on the shoulder and held out my arms in what I realize now was a gesture too commanding for a job seeker to make to a prospective employer. After initially hesitating, he relinquished the bundle to me, and, holding the child to my chest, I sank gratefully into the only seat in the room, a large and venerable-looking rocking chair fashioned of intricately woven wicker. A quick sniff and a practiced poke confirmed my sense that little Skylar was not in need of a diaper rehab, so I just held her with her head over my shoulder and tried to catch my breath. The pulse of the little heart so close to mine took me back to the long-ago days when Rebecca and Mark had been infants and I had held them thus. So keen was this memory that it wouldn’t have surprised me if I had begun to lactate. From time to time, I patted Skylar’s back, hoping to console her. Long ago I had learned that whatever was hurting her would soon stop. After all, gas is not usually life threatening and even the pain of colic is only temporary.

  In a few minutes Skylar quieted and her breathing gradually became regular. I tiptoed to the crib, lowered her gently to the mattress, and covered her with a light blanket I found there. She trembled ever so slightly at the change of venue and was still again. Just then Davida’s small hand darted into the crib. In a flash Torrence circled her wrist with his long, bony fingers and yanked her hand out of the crib. With his large-frame glasses and spindly limbs, Torrence reminded me of an outsized arachnid while Davida, all aflutter in black and orange, looked like a Monarch butterfly. While I was processing these disturbing images, Davida pulled her arm away and looked imploringly at Torrence. He grimaced and shook his head.

  After their parental pantomime had ended, I noticed that what Davida had been reaching for was a plastic panel with buttons labeled “Bach,” “Beethoven,” and “Mozart” affixed to the side of the crib and connected to the motorized mobile poised to reel over Skylar’s head. Eyeing her husband warily, Davida adjusted another small plastic device on the wall and the three of us tiptoed out of the room and began the long trek downstairs.

  We were quiet until we reached the large kitchen, where, without discussion, Davida and I settled around the scarred wooden trestle table. Torrence approached a tiny TV set on the counter, stared at it, and then joined us. On the screen appeared Skylar, sleeping peacefully, just as we had left her. I recognized the baby-monitor that Ria had mentioned, a descendant of the intercom that Rebecca and Keith had used when Abbie J was small. Marveling at how I had managed to raise two kids without a Mozart-playing mobile, let alone a video camera to tell me when they awakened, I recalled myself to the task at hand.

  After a brief, awkward silence, Torrence said, “Well, I guess we don’t have to ask you about how you handle a cranky baby, Ms. Mason. That was an impressive demonstration.” He had taken off his glasses, and he began to massage his closed eyelids. When he stopped, I noticed circles the color of violets ringing his protruding eyes.

  “I think gas makes most of us ‘cranky,’” I said, indignant that he would label a clearly distressed baby as “cranky.” For the second time that evening I dropped the subservient demeanor of a job seeker. I would have to watch that.

  During this exchange, Davida was blowing her nose. Then she said, “Tory, please keep your eye on the monitor. I’ll be right back.” The nasal quality of her voice and the redness around her eyes caused me to wonder if she had been crying before I arrived or if she had a cold.

  “Right. I’m on it,” Torrence said, rolling his eyes behind his wife’s back. The minute we heard the door to the bathroom close, he spoke again. “My wife’s lost it since Skylar was born. Davida’s always been a little high strung, but now, she’s to tally wired. She comes back home two or three times a day to see how Skylar’s doing, even though we have a Nanny-cam and she can see what’s happening on that.” Torrence made Davida’s ambivalence about leaving her baby sound like a bizarre and unusual fetish. “I’m hoping she’ll snap out of it when we get a new nanny, someone older, more mature.” We heard the bathroom door open and Torrence shifted the focus of his remarks. “So tell me, Ms. Mason, how do you feel about the Nanny-cam?”

  Before I could reply, Davida reentered the room and said, “I’d like to show Ms. Mason around a little first, Tory. Why don’t you make us a cup of tea? Or would you rather have coffee, Ms. Mason?”

  “Herbal tea would be lovely, thank you,” I said, getting to my feet and bracing myself to mount the stairs again. I was relieved when Davida guided me through a door into a large formal dining room with a pink marble fireplace on one side, a
carved buffet on the other, and a table and twelve chairs in the middle. Open books literally covered the tabletop, crowding another monitor featuring the sleeping Skylar. I swallowed a giggle when I eyeballed among the titles Parenting for Dummies and Week by Week: Your Baby’s First Year. Instead of commenting on the reading material, I said, “What a magnificent room.”

  Davida’s acknowledgment of the compliment was perfunctory. Clearly she had something else on her mind besides the dining room décor. “You know, Tory has always been a very laid-back, mellow guy, but lately, since Skylar was born, really, he’s anxious and jumpy all the time,” Davida said. “I hope that when we get a new, really experienced nanny and get into a routine, he’ll relax, be more himself.” There was no time to respond to Davida before we were back in the kitchen, where Torrence had poured three cups of tea and produced a plate of assorted cookies from one of my favorite local bakeries.

  “So tell me, Ms. Mason, when do you begin reading to children?” asked Torrence, trying to transform the evening from psychodrama to interview.

  “I read to infants. It’s never too early to read to a child,” I retorted. Torrence and Davida also asked me about my attitude toward TV watching. That was easy. I told them it was a passive activity that did not foster a child’s cognitive, linguistic, or emotional development. They nodded. Then they asked about my driving record. “It’s unblemished,” I lied. A ticket for going through not one but two red lights the week before lay crumpled in my glove compartment at that very moment. Next they wanted to know about my background in nutrition. It did not seem appropriate to reveal that my idea of a well-balanced meal is M&Ms and Mallomars washed down with a little chocolate milk, so I lied again. “And have you kept your CPR certificate updated?” Torrence asked.

  Just as I was about to fabricate yet again, a faint mewling emanated from the monitor on the counter. It echoed also from the dining room. That explained how little Skylar’s wails on the fourth floor had managed to sound stereophonic at the ground floor door. Davida leapt to her feet, rushed to the monitor, and studied it. Torrence’s entire body stiffened and he began reflexively rubbing his eyes. On the screen Skylar wiggled a little and shuddered convulsively. One did not need a book on early childhood development to know what she was doing. In a moment she lay still and quiet. Her parents, however, remained agitated. “I’ll go up and change her,” Torrence said, raising his teacup to his lips and draining it.

  “No, don’t wake her up, for God’s sake,” snapped Davida. “She gets hardly any sleep.” Clearly Skylar was not the only sleep-deprived member of this family. “Leave her alone. We can change her when she wakes up.”

  “She gets so sore when we leave her, though,” said Torrence. I looked at my watch.

  “So, Ms. Mason, I mean, Marcia, are you interested in this position?” asked Davida abruptly. Her tone made her question sound more like a dare than a job offer. “Should we get together again after we’ve reached your references? Neither of them has yet returned my calls.”

  That was a relief. I wouldn’t have to guess at what Betty and Illuminada had told them. “I am interested. But there are two issues to resolve. One, of course, is salary, which we haven’t even discussed,” I said, eager to maintain my credibility as a person seeking employment.

  “And the other?” Torrence asked. Davida put her scrunched up Kleenex into her teacup and pulled a clean tissue out of her pocket.

  “I read in the paper last week that Skylar’s nanny was strangled right upstairs in the baby’s room.” Davida blanched. Torrence stiffened again and his right eye began to twitch. I continued, “Did the police get whoever did that? And, if not, what have you done to see that the next nanny you hire isn’t killed too?”

  “I told you,” said Davida, glaring at Torrence. “I told you no one would want to work here now.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Davida, please,” said Torrence, articulating each word through clenched teeth. Turning to me, he said, “Ms. Mason, this house has a very expensive alarm system rigged up to the security company. Nobody breaks in here while it’s on without the security switchboard lighting up, and when that happens whoever’s on duty there calls the police. Nobody called the police that day until Davida got home and called them herself.”

  “Are you saying the alarm was turned off?” I asked, intrigued.

  “I’m saying that it wasn’t on,” said Torrence. Again his teeth were jammed so tightly together as to guarantee him a case of TMJ.

  “Do you think the nanny herself would have turned it off?” I asked, remembering Ria’s hushed and urgent voice on the phone.

  “Our last nanny was very good with Skylar,” Davida chimed in before Torrence could reply. Twisting her thin hands together, she continued. “But she was young and very pretty.” Davida’s suddenly disparaging tone made youth and beauty sound like liabilities akin to acne and bad breath. “And she was getting married soon. Who knows? Maybe she turned off the alarm to let her fiancé or a friend into the house. Who knows?” Now Davida’s nasal inflection lent her repeated query an eerie quality.

  “I told you, Davida, Ria didn’t even know her fiancé. Besides, she said he lives in London and he wasn’t moving here until after the wedding,” said Torrence. Turning to me, he added, “You’d be perfectly safe here. I assure you of that.” Was that his way of saying that I was not young and beautiful enough to tempt an intruder, or did he believe or actually know that Ria had opened the door to her killer?

  “Well, I’ll have to think it over,” I said. “And I’m sure you have other applicants to interview.” As I put on my jacket, I heard Skylar’s first howl. The poor little tyke was awake and crying all over the house by the time I left.

  Early the next morning when I checked my e-mail there was a response to my plea for help from a cyber sister of a certain age.

  To: Bbarrett@circle.com

  From: dharr@juno.com

  Re: Weaning yourself off estrogen

  Date: 05/21/02 09:08:42

  Dear Hormonally Challenged,

  I’ve been addicted to estrogen for a decade. But I didn’t wear a patch like you do. You must feel like the gal with the golden tush! Seriously, in response to the new studies, my doctor suggested that I wean myself off estrogen and progesterone by taking one fewer pill of each type each week until I was no longer taking any. I just started this week, so I don’t know how it’s going to work yet. But how would you do this with a patch? Can you cut a little bit off every seven days? Or just peel it off for an additional day every week? It’s time for a consult with your doctor. Well, gotta go and open a window.

  Good luck.

  Dottie in Nome

  Although Dottie’s account of estrogen withdrawal didn’t exactly set my mind at ease, it did prompt me to scribble “Call Dr. Bodimeind” on a Post-It note for the dashboard of my car. There it would join the myriad of other reminders fluttering on my mobile memory bank. The phone rang just as I finished thanking Dottie and was about to shut down my computer. It was Sol. “Hi, love, I’m staying up here for another day or two. Alexis fired the baby-sitter for watching TV while Cassie was in the tub, so grandpa’s pinch-hitting for a few more days. Just wanted to check in and let you know what’s going on. How are you? Are you feeling any better? Is the semester winding down or are you still swamped?”

  “Oh, I’ve got final exams to read, so I hardly even noticed you’re gone,” I quipped, ignoring his inquiry as to my general well-being. “Actually, I’m thinking of doing a little baby-sitting myself once I get through with these blue books.”

  “Oh, is Abbie J visiting again?” Sol asked.

  “I wish,” I said. “No, I’m thinking of keeping an eye on the baby my student used to take care of, the student who was killed, remember?” I said, hoping that he would not be too irate when he realized that I was sleuthing again. Sol had gotten used to my crime solving over the years. Sometimes he even helped. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

  “Christ,
Bel, don’t tell me. You’re not satisfied to let the cops finger whoever killed that young woman, are you? I suppose your overdeveloped guilt gland is driving you to stick your nose into this.” Exasperation hurried his words and lent them an accusatory tone.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” I said, anticipating his next line. “But I’ve got to hurry now. I’m taking Ma to the dentist before I go to RECC. I’ll talk with you tonight. Give Cassie a hug for me.” Since Sol and I had wrested my mother’s car keys from her, my life often felt like a replay of Driving Miss Daisy. But I had resolved that I’d rather be inconvenienced than worried about my eighty-something mother behind the wheel. Taking Ma to the dentist constituted a serious inconvenience that particular morning when I was trying to churn out final grades as well as solve a murder.

  Sadie Bickoff, a former court stenographer in Brooklyn, was usually impeccably garbed and groomed as if headed for an audience with royalty instead of with a dentist or a supermarket clerk. That’s why I was concerned when she opened the door. Her navy blue cardigan had a spot of something below the second buttonhole, and the top snap of her khaki skirt was undone. I noticed that she carried her cane without being reminded, an unspoken acknowledgment that she really needed it. Ma reached out and ran a finger over the antique gold brooch she had given me for Mother’s Day now gleaming on my collar. “Wear it in good health,” she said. “Your father gave me that for my fiftieth birthday.”

  “I know. It’s gorgeous,” I said. “I’ve always loved it. Where’s Sofia?” I asked, eager to move us along. “Isn’t she ready yet?” I planted a kiss on the wrinkled cheek Ma extended in my direction, a habitual greeting she had never forsworn or altered. When we meet in heaven, she’ll have her cheek turned to me for a kiss, and I’ll oblige.

  “She’s not coming,” Ma said, sounding a little piqued. Since they’d met and made friends at the Senior Center, these two widows had become inseparable. They began as playmates, indulging their shared passion for games of chance in Atlantic City. Then when Ma moved into the home Sofia Dellafemina had shared with her late husband, they became housemates. “She’s got an eye doctor appointment this morning. Her daughter picked her up half an hour ago.”