The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  Her teeth tore off another cookie chunk. I was tired, floating. I closed my eyes and savored the burn. Outside, in the street, the ambulance doors closed, and I felt the pulse of flashing lights as the vehicle drove away.

  FORTY-ONE

  “WELL, THAT’S THAT.“ SUSAN FOLDED HER ARMS ACROSS HER chest.

  “What’s what?”

  “No more serial killer. No need for a trial, either, since the dude’s dead. Just the coroner’s hearing to determine the facts.” A crumb stuck to the corner of her mouth. “It’s a shame, in a way. I might have got him off, if I’d had a chance.” She chuckled and suddenly stopped. “Oh, what am I saying? I’m such an ass, trying to make light of it. I’m still shaking, see? Look at my hands. I can’t imagine how you must feel. You were right next to him.”

  “I’m okay.” She looked me squarely in the eye and licked away the crumb.

  “No. You are not. But hey, thank God they stopped him before he hurt anyone else.”

  I looked toward the stairs. “I should go check and see how Molly is.”

  “She’s fine. Let her be with the other kids. There are moms around if she needs one. Who else’s here?”

  “Karen.” I didn’t remember who else. “Maybe just her.” “Karen’s enough. Relax. You look ghastly.” “So do you.”

  “Do I? Damn. Time for a dose of medicine.” She took a bottle of Scotch from my liquor cabinet. “Here.” She poured. “Drink.” “Susan.”

  “Drink.” It was an order.

  I drank. She made a toast in what sounded like Italian and gulped.

  “Look. At least we know they got him. We don’t have to worry about a loose psycho anymore. Maybe Bonita will come back to work.”

  I looked at Susan as the Scotch slid down my throat, golden and warm. She held up her glass again.

  “Here’s to the sharpshooters. And our luck that they shot straight.”

  I nodded. “That thought occurred to me.”

  “Shit. If somebody’d sneezed, if a guy’s finger trembled, you’d have splattered the walls instead of Charlie. Believe me, the cops haven’t heard the end of this. I intend to—”

  Something beeped.

  “Damn.” Susan reached for her bulky embroidered bag and took out a phone. I swallowed more Scotch while she spoke efficiently, rapidly, with few syllables, and stuffed the phone back into her handbag.

  “Well, that was interesting.” She wrestled with a date book and a cosmetics case, jammed them together, and zipped the bag, fraying the edges of a manila envelope. “That was Ed. I guess he saw me at the shooting, so he thinks I’m an insider again.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To keep me informed.” She gazed out the window. “Guess what they’ve found in Charlie’s basement?”

  I closed my eyes and drained my glass. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I don’t want to know.”

  But Susan had already started to tell me. With a trembling hand, I reached for the Scotch and poured myself another shot.

  FORTY-TWO

  “CUTTING TOOLS. ALL KINDS. SAWS, AXES, CHISELS, KNIVES—“ “What a surprise, Susan. Charlie was a handyman. He worked with tools.”

  “He had everything he’d need to dispose of the bodies. Even a big worktable. But that’s not all.” Her eyes widened. “Here’s the corker. He had their stuff. Claudia’s handbag, Tamara’s locket. Shoes. Earrings. Keys. Mementos. Something from each victim.”

  I pictured Charlie’s bad legs hobbling down shadowy stairs to visit some gruesome shrine and shivered. Susan shoved a lock of hair behind her ear and frowned.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Charlie. I just can’t believe it. He didn’t seem like a murderer.” “He was stark raving nuts, Zoe. He cut up women’s bodies in his basement.”

  “But if he was a killer, why didn’t he kill me the way he killed the nannies? Why would he insist that he was protecting me? And why did he start shooting? Who did he think the killer was?”

  “Whoa.” Susan put her hand on my arm. “Slow down. Don’t upset yourself more by trying to get inside a maniac’s mind. Stop applying reason to behavior based on insanity.”

  She was right. I wasn’t thinking clearly

  “Meantime”—she glanced at her watch—”I’m starving. We missed dinner, and the kids have to eat. I ordered pizzas.” “You did?”

  “They said half an hour. If they don’t get here soon, somebody’s head’s gonna roll.”

  “Somebody’s already did.” I didn’t intend to joke. “Really funny, Zoe. Bag it.”

  “Now, there’s an advertising concept. For extra-heavy-duty trash bags?” I wasn’t smiling. I could see television commercials showing cleanup crews carrying green plastic bags from the guillotine, Jeffrey Dahmer stuffing them into his fridge, Ted Bundy storing them in his car.

  I ripped skin off my lip with my teeth, tasted blood. Saltier, not as sweet as Charlie’s. Tamara’s head rolled across a shelf in Charlie’s basement, scowling.

  Susan looked me over. “You really look awful.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Well, you do. You worry me.”

  “I’m okay. Are you?”

  “No, not even close. So how can you be?” “Well, I am. Or I will be.”

  She picked at a cuticle. Her hands were trembling. “I wish Tim were here. Or Nick.”

  I squinted, wondering why. What good could Tim or Nick or anyone do? Bags of body parts, weapons, and the personal effects of each missing nanny had been found in Charlie’s basement. Charlie’d been protecting me, but apparently it had been from himself, his own secret depravity. It was difficult to believe that old Charlie had been capable of such despicable acts, but the evidence was clear. Nothing could change that. Just as nothing could remove the warmth of his wet brains from my skin, or his surprised dying face from my memory.

  From upstairs, a small voice called, “Where are you, Mommy?”

  ““Down here, Molly.” I felt wobbly.

  “Can we have those whistles? Mommy?” Oh God. I hoped they wouldn’t start blowing those damned necklaces. “Not now.” I started to stand.

  Susan put her hand up to stop me. “Karen’ll take care of Molly. Sit.”

  Against my will, I sat. Actually, I sank. My legs were liquid, and I was groggy. The room tipped slightly, probably from Scotch on a shocked and empty stomach. Susan hefted her hip onto the table and leaned over me.

  “Zoe,” she scolded. “You know what? Go to Nick’s. Get out of here for a while. You need a rest.”

  “So? So do you.”

  “But my lips aren’t bleeding.”

  My lips were bleeding? I tasted them. They were.

  “You’re biting them nonstop.”

  “I’ll stop.”

  “Go with Nick. Get pampered.” “I don’t think so.” “Why not?”

  “Why not? You know why not. I can’t just leave—”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Zoe. Of course you can. Molly can stay with us—”

  “Oh no. Uh-uh. I’m not leaving Molly, no way.”

  Upstairs, Molly shrieked triumphantly. “Never mind, Mommy!”

  “Okay, Mollybear,” I called.

  Susan wouldn’t stop. “Fine. Then take her along. But go. It’s only a goddam weekend. Get out of this house and off this street for a couple of days. Don’t think, don’t cook, don’t worry about work or patients or Charlie or anyone but yourself and your little girl. Do it. Go. Lord knows I would if I could.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go. Spend some time with the guy. Zoe, Nick cares about you—I could see it today. He was right there for you. I mean, the man washed somebody’s brains out of your hair.”

  Susan’s phone rang again. She fumbled it out of her bag and spoke with a raw voice. “It’s okay, Lisa honey. I told you before, we’re fine, don’t worry. Did you eat? And do your homework? Well, you have to do it, even so. Turn off the television. I
don’t know—as soon as I can.” The frown line etched its way back between her eyebrows, and she turned away, whispering, explaining.

  Upstairs, children’s feet thumped the floors. Shouts and sounds of movement drifted down. Molly was fine; so were all the other kids. I didn’t remember going there, but somehow I’d landed on my purple living room sofa. As Susan tried to convince her oldest daughter that the crisis was over and she was okay, a chorus of raucous laughter bounced down the stairs, and I huddled under an afghan, sipping Scotch through torn and bloody lips.

  FORTY-THREE

  BY THE TIME PIZZAS CAME, EVERYONE EXCEPT SUSAN AND EMILY had gone home. I kept telling Susan to leave, but she wouldn’t. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “I’m not alone. Molly’s here. Besides, Lisa and Julie saw the news. They must be freaked—”

  “They’re fine for now. What’ll you have, sausage or pepperoni?”

  She refused to leave, even though the weather was rapidly worsening. Big snowflakes fell heavily, the beginning of a storm expected to continue all weekend. She and the girls ate pizza, but I had no appetite. The sauce, the sausage—it all looked like pieces of Charlie.

  The girls were exhausted and sat, eyes glazed, watching television, but Susan wouldn’t leave until Nick arrived. When he did, at around nine-thirty, she still didn’t leave. Nick looked worn-out, so Susan fixed him a Scotch, dealing with her stress by becoming hostess, rifling through my cupboards for some hearty late-night snack.

  “You okay?” he asked me. His clothes were rumpled and stubble shadowed his face, but his gaze was warm, concerned.

  “Are you?” I avoided answering.

  “We need to talk.” He seemed urgent, harassed.

  “Okay.” I couldn’t imagine focusing long enough to discuss anything, but we went to the sofa and sank onto velvet cushions.

  “I was an asshole—”

  “Really, Nick. It doesn’t—”

  “please just listen, Zoe. I guess I blew it with you, so I’m not surprised you don’t want to hear what I have to say. But I’m responsible for what happened tonight, so I—”

  “Wait—what? How are you responsible—”

  He interrupted. “You told me about this guy, how nuts he was. You gave me the information, and I should have taken care of it. I should have prevented the whole damned thing. It was my responsibility. I screwed up. I let you and those other people down. And I’m sorry.” He took my hand. “Man, you’re like ice.” He moved closer and began warming me, rubbing my hands. “You want a blanket? A sweater?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t object to the contact, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t yet absorbed the idea that Charlie was the killer. And, if fault for what had happened were to be assigned, I’d get my share. After all, if I’d listened to Charlie that day and not gone out—if I’d only stayed home in my own house with my little girl, everything would have been different. Charlie wouldn’t have followed me. Molly would be upstairs, tucked in her bed. No trash bags or keepsakes would have been found in Charlie’s basement. And Charlie would still be alive.

  “Give me a minute,” Nick said. He took off his jacket and hung it on my shoulders. When he went into the kitchen, I wandered over to Molly and Emily. They were sprawled in front of the television.

  “You okay, girls?” I joined them on the floor.

  Molly looked my way. “Charlie’s killed, right, Mom?”

  I took her hand. “He’s dead, yes.”

  “Told you,” she said to Emily

  “No, I told you,” Emily insisted. “You said he’d get better.” “Uh-uh—you said that—”

  “Well, he’s gone,” I said. “He was sick and he couldn’t think straight, and he made a bad mistake.”

  Molly spoke with authority. “He had bad dreams that seemed real, Em. It was like—he couldn’t wake up from them. Right, Mom?”

  “That’s right.” Once again, it surprised me how much she understood.

  “But if he was sick, why’d the police shoot at him?” Emily asked.

  “ ‘Cause he shot at them.” “But why’d he shoot at them?”

  Molly rolled her eyes as if the answer were obvious. “ ‘Cause he didn’t know they’d shoot back at him.” The explanation baffled me but seemed to satisfy both of them.

  “Well, it was very sad. And scary. But it’s over and we’re all safe.” I put an arm around each of them, almost melting from their hugs.

  “Mommy?” Molly’s voice was urgent. “Do you think my tooth will come out tonight?” She wiggled it for me. It was still tethered securely.

  “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” I stroked her head.

  Emily grinned. “Yes!”

  “Yes?” I asked. Clearly, they’d discussed it.

  “If it won’t come out tonight, then the Tooth Fairy won’t have to find me. So maybe—can I sleep over at Emily’s? Pleeeeze?”

  FORTY-FOUR

  MOLLY SLEPT AT HOME THAT NIGHT. I WOULDN’T LET HER GO anywhere, even to Susan’s. I couldn’t. But somehow, by the time Susan and Emily left, I’d agreed that Molly and I would spend the weekend at Nick’s place in the country. Nick and Susan seemed convinced that I should get away, have a view of something other than Charlie’s empty house. A break from responsibilities. Nick insisted that I was to do nothing, not cook, not clean, not plan, not think. I was to pack a minimum and allow Nick to take care of everything.

  I went along with the scheme, aware of my uncharacteristic passivity. I didn’t see what difference it made where we were, but I didn’t argue. My body was limp and drained. I was weak, nonverbal, slow to react. I found it difficult to form clear thoughts. I couldn’t imagine standing up, let alone fixing dinners and breakfasts, doing daily chores for Molly or myself. I’d sunk into a kind of exhaustion I’d never imagined, too tired to swim through it or even to try.

  Finally, Susan went home, and Molly was asleep. When I crawled into bed, it felt like almost morning, but the clock said just twelve-thirty. I remember falling onto my soft, cool pillow, the fluffy comforter folding over me, Nick tucking me in. Nick? Why was he still there? And why was I so glad to see him? He talked about his home in the country, about escaping. About fireplaces. About pine trees and fresh air. It seemed natural, as if he belonged.

  I remember thinking, falling into sleep, that before I left I’d have to call someone to say where I was going. Michael? No, Michael and I were divorced. Weren’t we? Then who? No name, no face came to mind. But it was somebody. There was, had to be, someone I had to call. But, drifting, I couldn’t think, couldn’t remember who it was.

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE FIRE POPPED. I JUMPED. NICK GRABBED MY HAND.

  “Sorry.” It had sounded like a shot.

  “Relax,” he said. “Let me fix you a drink.”

  The day had passed in a haze. My headache pills must have relaxed me into unconsciousness. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d simply “gone away” for a while, too numb to participate.

  At any rate, my recollection of getting to Nick’s was, at best, hazy. I had little memory of getting into his car or of making what must have been a forty-five-minute drive to his house in Chester County. I wasn’t sure if we’d left in the morning or afternoon. Waking, dressing, eating breakfast, getting Molly ready—I’d done it all in a fog. Worst of all was Molly. Shortly after we’d arrived, I’d seen her scamper off to play in the snow, but I couldn’t remember her coming back inside. And that troubled me. How could I forget to watch my child? Why didn’t I know if she’d made a snowman or worn her mittens or had hot cocoa when she’d come in? Was it possible that I hadn’t noticed, hadn’t made certain that she’d been safe?

  Nick rearranged me on the pillows. What a wimp I was. My arms were leaden. My eyes burned. My head weighed tons. Each thought, each image was heavy and hard to hold on to. I wanted to snap out of it, but whenever I closed my eyes, Charlie’s blood splattered the walls, covered my face. His hand held mine, even when his skull sh
attered, even when his brains flew across the room. His voice implored me to be careful.

  No, I told myself. Get rid of Charlie. He was nuts. Don’t let his delusions seep deeper. Don’t worry about Molly. She’s fine. She’s resilient and wise. But no matter how I reassured myself, I felt Charlie squeeze my hand as his head popped open, splashing my face.

  The fire popped. No need to jump, nothing to scream about. Nick went to the kitchen, and I heard water running, paper rustling, glass clattering. Molly’s voice asking, “Like this?” Nick’s voice muffled, offering an answer. Then giggling. Molly was helping him cook again, I guessed. They were fine. I lay back and watched the fire wrap itself around the logs. Fingers of flame held the wood, reaching into cracks, sucking out everything but ash. There was no escape; the fire consumed until there was nothing left.

  Nick offered me a glass mug of something hot and steamy. The liquid matched the fire, glowed with golden light. My arms wouldn’t move to take it. What the hell was wrong with me? Nick held the mug to my lips and told me to take a sip. I smelled cloves and looked up at him, grateful to be taken care of. Charlie whispered, “Don’t trust anybody,” and reptilian eyes squinted at me, sharp as knives. I blinked, and Nick’s blue eyes blinked back, taking me in.

  “Mommy, we made hot cider.” Molly cuddled beside me, careful not to spill her drink.

  “Have some,” Nick urged. “It’ll soothe you.”

  Lifting a leaden hand to take the drink, I put Charlie’s warnings aside. Nick was a cop, a detective. He had flaws, but he was decent and generous, trying to make up for what had happened. Taking us into his home. Charlie’s paranoid suggestions and the trauma of his death had warped my thinking. If I weren’t careful, even in death Charlie might take over my thoughts and distort my judgment.

  Spicy, steamy liquid glowed, tickling my lips. I sipped, tasted tart apples, cloves, cinnamon, and a shot of rum.

  “Do you like it, Mom?” Molly sipped hers. “I love it. But yours is spiked.”