The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  “Distressed.”

  Oh Lord. How long was he going to drag this out? “Look, Nick, it’s almost nine. I’ve got to get to work.”

  “Just another minute.” He squinted at his notepad, looking over his scribbles, turning pages. “Gene O’Malley,” he mumbled.

  “Gymnastics coach, rejected by at least two of the missing nannies. Joe Molinari, boyfriend with a bad temper. Okay.” He scanned a page. “Tell me about the phobic guy again. Victor. You said he’s a loner, thirty-something. And a musician?”

  “He plays cello. In the summer, when the windows are open, you can hear him playing it.”

  “Anything else? Do you see anyone in particular visiting him? Any women?”

  “All I’ve seen are deliverymen.”

  “And he never goes outside. Are you sure?”

  Why was he repeating his questions again and again? I didn’t appreciate being interrogated, as if I were withholding some significant information. “Look, I’ve told you everything. As far as I know, Victor’s been in there for years. I see his silhouette behind the shades at night. sometimes he peeks through the blinds during the day. But the man doesn’t go out. He doesn’t even step onto the porch. We had to leave his Christmas cookies inside the storm door.” I stood, indicating that the discussion was over. “If you want, I can give you a written report tomorrow, but I’ve got to get to work.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it again, and stood. say it, I thought. Go on. Tell me there’s something else you want to talk about. Tell me you want to see me again. To start over.

  He opened his mouth again, then hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “Then I guess we’re done.”

  “I guess.” I didn’t flounder, didn’t give a hint that my body ached to tackle him right there. If he felt nothing, then I would feel nothing, too. Except that I didn’t feel nothing. I felt like screaming. Like balling up my fists and throttling him, or knocking him down, pouncing on him, and mashing my lips against his mouth. Instead, when he thanked me for my help, I walked him demurely to the door.

  He called Molly to say good-bye. she hugged him again and asked when he’d be back. Soon, he said, and, nodding briefly in my direction, he went out the door into the freezing rain.

  Don’t go, I thought. Please. stop. Turn around.

  He stopped. And turned around. “Zoe?”

  Oh my God. It was happening. Now he’d say he was sorry. He’d ask if we could talk things out. I’d pretend to be reluctant, but then I’d rush outside and fall into his arms. I opened the door, ready to sprint. “Yes?” I breathed, a little too eagerly.

  “If you think of anything else, give a call, okay?”

  The sleet stung my face. “Of course,” I said, closing the door.

  Nick hurried to his car. Molly waved good-bye from the kitchen window. I stood against the wall, kicking myself for wanting what was not to be.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ANGELA ARRIVED AT NINE O’CLOCK. JOE DROPPED HER OFF IN the tow truck from his job at Torelli’s Auto Repair, yelling that she should quit her goddam babysitting job until the fucking murderer was caught—she could work at his aunt’s bakery or get a job doing manicures. Angela made a nasty gesture and shouted that he was not in charge of her and should shut his ugly face. He got out of the truck and met her, nose to nose. Gesticulating, shouting simultaneously, neither was listening to the other. I watched from the kitchen window, more aware than ever that I was putting Angela at risk by employing her. Even though he was a flaming hothead, for once I agreed with Joe. I’d ask Angela to take time off until the crimes were solved. I’d take Molly to work with me after school, or shorten my hours.

  Outside, Angela ended the argument by turning her back to Joe and stomping up the front steps. I opened the door for her.

  “Go,” she huffed. “You’re late.”

  “Joe has a point.”

  “Don’t you start. Nobody’s gonna mess with me. Not some psycho. Not Joe. And not you.”

  “Maybe just take off a week or two.”

  “And you’ll do what? Who’s gonna watch Molly?”

  “I can manage for a few weeks.”

  “Zoe. Tell me. Would you leave your job if some kook was going after art therapists?”

  “I might. For a while anyway.”

  “Yeah? Well, see? That’s how we’re different. This is my job. My business. No one stops me from doing it.”

  A horn honked. My taxi was outside. I had to go.

  “What if I fire you? For your own safety.”

  Her hands flew to her hips. “Fine. Go ahead. For your information, Miss Bosslady, sitters and nannies are quitting by the busload around here. Those cute little au pairs? They’re running back to Iowa or France or wherever the hell they come from, leaving families in need of experienced childcare professionals like me. So fire me. Fine. I’ll get another job in like four seconds. I bet they’ll pay more, too, with the shortage. I’m in demand.”

  “Okay, stop,” I smiled, hugging her. She allowed the hug but didn’t return it—Angela was in her spitfire mode. “Believe me, I don’t want to fire you, Angela. What would we do without you?”

  The taxi honked again.

  “You’d be lost, that’s what.”

  “We would. But I don’t want you to be in danger. And neither does Joe.”

  “screw Joe. He gets his way, I’ll never leave the block.” “He wants you to be safe.” Why was I defending Joe? He was controlling, possessive. Basically, a bully. “Too bad. I gotta live my life.” “You’re being stubborn.” “I’m being how I am.”

  “Just think about taking off a few days. Will you?”

  she crossed her arms, impatient. “Your cab’s waiting.”

  Angela had made her mind up. There was no point arguing. I hurried to say good-bye to Molly and ran out the door. Joe had gotten back into the truck but was still parked in front of the house, fuming, dark eyes intensely focused up the street. Was he on a stakeout watching for the kidnapper? A vigil guarding Angela? I followed his gaze, and it led to Jake, who was unloading supplies from his truck. Uh-oh. Did Joe know that Jake had driven Angela home? Lord, I hoped Joe wasn’t going to start something. He sat at the wheel jumpy, about to explode. short and wiry, he’d be no match for a meaty guy like Jake. I made a point of distracting Joe, waving to him, smiling a warm hello. When he saw me, he cursed, gunned his engine, and sped out of the parking spot, tires screeching.

  Up the street, Jake stopped unloading and watched the truck careen past. Then, head bent into the wind, he began carrying his supplies inside.

  The sleet was turning to snow. Flurries dusted fresh ice on the walk, and more storms were predicted through the weekend. I struggled across the slippery walk to the curb where the taxi waited with closed doors.

  Just as I got there, Charlie raced out onto his front porch, waving his arms.

  “Miss Zoe! Wait! Stop! Miss Zoe!”

  I opened the taxi door, tossed in my briefcase, and hung on to the cab for balance. Sharp flakes stung my face like tiny needles. Damn. What now?

  Charlie was coatless, his belt unbuckled. He waved frantically, yelling. “Don’t go out today, miss! stay home!”

  He hurried across the street in his slippers.

  The taxi driver drummed his fingers on the back of his seat, waiting for me to get in. “Ma’am? Are we going someplace today?”

  “Yes, of course—”

  Breathless and unshaven, Charlie grabbed my arm. He was unbalanced, sliding, and he almost pulled me off my feet.

  “Stay inside today, Miss Zoe!” He bent over and looked inside the cab, whispered in my ear. “It’s too dangerous!”

  “Charlie, please stop saying things like that.”

  He held my arm. “Listen.” He gestured for me to turn away and covered his mouth so the driver couldn’t hear. “Miss Zoe. Time is short. I’ve seen, I know. I look at things I’m not supposed to look at. But I know. I see where he keeps them, how he sneaks them in
. And it’s just the start. See now, now conditions are right. He’s close. Today might be the day.” Spit flew from Charlie’s lips. He spoke in a guttural hush; his eyes were glazed again, delusional.

  “Lady, you know I got the meter running, right?” The taxi driver was covering himself.

  “Charlie. Listen to me. You need help.” My words weren’t sinking in; his face remained frantic, his grip on my arm tight. “Look. I’m sorry, Charlie. I have to go to work. Please don’t worry. I’m fine.” I started to get into the cab, but he wouldn’t release me. If I were to move, I’d have to drag him with me.

  “Listen, miss!” he whispered. “I deciphered the code—when my fever broke, I reversed the spell, changed the current from my brain to his. I’ve read his waves. I know his thoughts. Believe me, you must listen. Today, all day, you must stay put. Stay home. Lie low. Don’t let go of your child. Evil is close—it’s disguised, not as it seems—”

  “Ma’am?” The taxi driver was getting impatient. “I’m missing calls here—”

  “One minute, please.” I glared at him, then looked poor Charlie full in the face. “Charlie,” I spoke slowly. “You need help.”

  “No, Miss Zoe—it’s you who needs help—”

  “No. No more. Listen carefully.” I looked into his eyes. “You’re ill, Charlie. The illness is affecting your thoughts. You need to see a doctor. Do you understand?”

  “No, miss, you must listen,” he began. Wet snow was clinging to his hair.

  “No more, Charlie.” I had to go. “Please, call your doctor. Or call the Family Center for a referral. Tell them I said you need to be seen today.”

  I removed his hand from my arm and fumbled in my bag for a card and a pen. “That’s the Center number. And that’s my office number. Call me if you can’t get a doctor’s appointment. I’ll make sure somebody sees you.”

  I put the card in his hand, but he didn’t budge. “I told you, miss. I warned you not to go.” He shook his head sadly and stood at the curb, arms by his side. And he stayed there, watching as I got into the cab and rode away. I had no idea how much I would later regret not heeding his advice.

  THIRTY-THREE

  WHEN I GOT TO WORK, BEVERLY GARDENER WAS WAITING OUTside the art room, a vision in cherry red. To what, I wondered, did I owe this celebrity visit?

  “Zoe, sugarplum,” she cooed. Her eyes beamed green lasers. “How are you coping? Are you managing all right?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Why wouldn’t I be? “How are you?”

  I unlocked the door, and she followed me inside, her presence filling the studio.

  “Oh, I’m peachy. Got a second to chat?”

  I assumed it was about her profile report. “Sure. In fact, I wanted to ask you about a note you wrote on the report.”

  “The report?” She seemed baffled.

  “The profile.”

  “Oh—not now, creampuff. I have television interviews in a minute—all morning long about the Nannynapper. The media love my name for him. I bet he loves it, too. All the attention it’s getting him.”

  “You think he watches Tv news?”

  “His coverage? Of course. He’s glued to his set. Probably jerks off to it, or would if he could get it up. He loves the fame, basks in the feeling of being a star.”

  Well, you’d know all about that, I thought.

  “Believe me, I know all about that.” She smiled, as if reading my mind. “There’s nothing like being a complete nobody and suddenly being discovered and seeing yourself all over the media. It’s an incredible ego trip. It happened to me ten years ago with my radio show, and it’s happening to the Nannynapper now.”

  She sidled up next to me, her voice husky and confidential. “But, see, fame can be tricky. It’s an illusion. It can make you forget who you really are and set you up for a fall.”

  I met her eyes, and for the briefest moment Beverly Gardener looked vulnerable. Then she looked away. Suddenly, for the second time in as many meetings, I found myself flattered, basking in her attention and apparent candor. There was a reason the woman captivated audiences. When she focused on you, somehow you felt important. As if you, not she, were the star. Still, I didn’t quite trust her or her confidential tone. The woman who for years had never bothered to greet me in the hallway now spoke to me in confidence, as if we were dear friends, united by time-tested sisterly bonds. What was she up to? What did Beverly Gardener want?

  “So, do you think fame will bring the Nannynapper down?” I asked, following her lead.

  “We can only hope so. It might embolden him so he gets careless.” She toyed with her collar, fingers skittering across her lapel, then glanced at her watch. “Look, pumpkin, he’s not the reason I wanted to talk to you. Actually, I came by for personal reasons.” She paused, as if not sure how to proceed. “It’s about Nick. I want to make sure we understand each other.”

  Understand each other? “Sorry?”

  “See, Nick told me—I mean, you do understand about Nick and me—our . . . deal?”

  Nick and her? I stammered, unsure how to respond. “Your deal?” What was she telling me? And why?

  “We’ve been spending a lot of time together, and he’s told me how much he thinks of you. So I wanted to be sure you got it straight. For Nick’s sake. And yours. Under the circumstances, I wanted us to be clear.”

  Clear? “I see.” I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to admit it.

  “Good. I didn’t want anyone to be hurt. Look, Nick’s a peach. Funny. He’s not my type, not at all. At first, I didn’t think we’d get along—he seemed so coarse and macho. But actually, he’s quite cultured, and sensitive when you get below the surface.” Exactly how far below the surface had she gotten? I swallowed, picturing her long fingers slipping beneath Nick’s shirt.

  “So.” I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders. “What’s your point?”

  She leaned back, eyeing me. “Just—I want us to be open with each other. It’s not like I intended to get between you. But, the way things are going, Nick and I are going to be pretty much inseparable. You need to know that.”

  My head was spinning. Was Beverly Gardener, famed best-selling author, profiler, problem solver, and internationally renowned star of radio, television, and the courtroom, threatened by me, innocuous unknown Zoe Hayes? Was she warning me to stay away from her man? Was Nick her man? Had he been all along?

  Possibly. Why not? If he could hide the truth about a bag of body parts and a lost finger, why would he reveal the relatively minor detail that he had a girlfriend? Was there anything Nick hadn’t misled me about?

  Suddenly, I was tired of Dr. Beverly Gardener. Undaunted by her poise or confidence or even her hypnotic green eyes. “Fact is,” I said, “where Detective Stiles is concerned, there’s not much for me to talk about. I’m done with my report.” I smiled as carelessly as I was able. Nick wasn’t the only one who could lie.

  She frowned. “Really? Then I must have gotten the wrong impression. From what he said, I thought you were personally involved.” Her eyes probed mine. Warmly, as if she cared. “But, either way, at least we’re cool with each other, you and I. And that’s important. Truth is, I don’t have many female friends. Most women feel threatened by me and keep their distance. But you aren’t intimidated. I can see why Nick likes you.”

  What was going on? Was she asking me to be her girlfriend? Or warning me to keep away from Nick? Or both? Was she being deliberately obtuse, or was I simply slow?

  Turning to go, she touched my arm and smiled, tiger eyes glowing. “Well, time to go. The Tv crew’s waiting.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Go get ‘em. Fame calls.”

  A shadow darted through her eyes, but she didn’t reply. With a fluttery wave, she hurried away, leaving me rattled and confused.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BEFORE I HAD TIME TO DIGEST THE CONVERSATION, THE ORderly arrived with Celia Dukell. I tried to shift my thoughts away from Beverly Gardener and Nick Stiles, to focus on work, but
Beverly’s throaty voice kept taunting me, whispering phrases in my mind. “Nick and I are going to be inseparable . . . He’s sensitive ...under the surface . . . It’s not like I intended to get between you . . .”

  “So? What do you think?” Celia’s voice brought me back. “My sleeves. I rolled them up today.”

  She had, indeed, exposing a patchwork of assorted scabs and scars. A jagged cut here and a razor slice there. Normally, Celia hid her wounds under clothing; today, she displayed her self-inflicted carnage openly, almost proudly. Seeing the damaged skin, I forced an encouraging smile.

  “Wow, Celia,” I congratulated her. “That’s a big step. How does it feel, baring your arms?”

  “Embarrassing,” she shrugged. “Naked.”

  I tried to concentrate on her eyes, not her ravaged flesh, but when I closed my eyes, my mind recalled other grisly wounds. A lopped-off finger. A gory bag of sliced skin and brittle bone. A brunette profiler and a rugged cop. Stop it, I scolded myself. This is Celia’s time. Focus on Celia.

  I gave her some soft modeling clay, hoping it would give her a physical focus. Some patients found it soothing to make pinch pots or animal figures. Working and molding the clay, Celia talked freely about herself. “You know, for the longest time, nobody knew I was cutting,” she bragged. “The only reason they found out is that I got carried away and went a little too deep into my thigh.”

  In fact, she’d almost bled to death, having dug a razor into her femoral artery. Celia’s stream of consciousness continued for the entire session, revealing how sly she’d thought she’d been, how carefully she’d hidden her secret, how long she’d been doing it. She talked calmly and matter-of-factly about slashing herself as her fingers worked and squeezed. When the orderly came to get her, she released her clay onto the table in a twisted, strangled wad.

  The day sped on, a staff meeting and private sessions in close succession. My final patient was the silent schizophrenic, Evie Kraus. Evie’s chart indicated some dramatic changes had been made. Her medications had been reduced, and she’d become more alert and responsive. And although she hadn’t actually spoken, she’d begun expressing herself vocally. Evie had begun to sing. In fact, she’d been singing all week. Even as I greeted her, she was crooning a tune.