The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  He was trying keys. How did he have Beverly’s keys? I heard a jangle, then the thrust of metal. He was turning the knob, jiggling, twisting it. Trying another key. Then another. In a second, he’d be in. Another key. Another. Then a violent metallic slam. Under the desk, I curled over Molly, felt her terror, and tried to fade into mahogany.

  Silence. Had Woods given up? Thrown the key ring against the door?

  Why hadn’t any of the keys worked? If they weren’t Beverly’s, whose keys did Woods have? Who would have keys? In the darkness, I remembered the key ring dangling from Rupert’s belt. Of course. Woods had taken Rupert’s keys.

  Suddenly there was an ear-shattering bang. Molly flew against me. The door shook. Woods was ramming, shoving, slamming his body against the door. Someone was talking, repeating himself, offering help. Not Charlie, not the guard. A real voice. Where? Who was it? I looked around, then remembered. The phone. The voice was on the phone. I snapped to attention, breathless. My voice scraped raw, trembled, tasted like acid. But I heard it gasp what needed to be said. Even that the guard in the downstairs hall was dead.

  SIXTY-THREE

  HE’D STOPPED BATTERING. I HEARD NOTHING BUT MOLLY’S rapid breathing. No footsteps, no sound at all. Had he given up? Gone to get an ax? Where was he? Sitting outside the door?

  The operator told us to stay where we were. Good advice, since there was no way out except past Woods. The police could not possibly come in time, not nearly in time. Nick lay lifeless in the alcove, Beverly beside us on the floor. There was only one door. Beverly’s desk sat somber and morose, offering nothing. No pens or pencils. No letter openers. No scissors. Just a Tiffany lamp, a briefcase, and a vase of wilting lilies.

  But the briefcase—maybe Beverly kept Mace in there. Or a small jewel-handled revolver? I picked up the case and clicked it open. The light was dim, but I knew right away that nothing in the briefcase could help us. Just files. Radio scripts. And a folder labeled in big block letters: PHILLIP WOODS 302.

  Now, I was only an art therapist, but, working at the Institute, I’d often heard the term. A 302 was the provision that gave the state permission to commit a person without his consent if he was a danger to himself or others. The Institute housed a number of people who’d come there through 302s. And it seemed Beverly Gardener had prepared the documents for Phillip Woods to join them.

  “I’m just getting a light,” I told Molly. Then, quickly, I reached up and pulled the lamp down under the desk. I turned it on and saw the fear on Molly’s face subside a little with the light. Holding her against me, I scanned the papers in the file. Copies of police reports, of a restraining order—and a lengthy harassment complaint Beverly had filed with the police. Nick’s name was at the top. Had he taken her complaint? Why was a homicide detective involved in a harassment case? Obviously, because he had a special relationship with the complainant. And that was why they’d met last night—to fill out the 302, stating that Phillip Woods had become a danger to himself or others. I looked out at Beverly’s bare, outstretched legs. An immediate, imminent danger.

  I skimmed the complaint. The incidents started with fan letters and e-mails. Then phone calls, physical visits, stalking. Then threats. Beverly obtained a restraining order, but Woods ignored it. An attachment indicated that restraining orders had been placed against phillip Woods in the past decade by others: author Susan Erstine, violinist Erica Olsen, and local newscaster Deirdre Bogarth. When Beverly Gardener had confronted Woods and insisted he leave her alone, Woods said that she had no authority to insist on anything, that she was obviously an impostor, not actually Beverly Gardener at all. He threatened to expose her, said that he’d dealt with impostors like her before and that she could easily “meet the same fate as the others.” She took this to mean that Woods was irrational and intending her grave harm.

  Attached to this last page was a Post-it. “Nick: Impostors = those who act as others. Woods has problem with impostors. ‘Deals’ with them. Nannies = impostor mothers == Could Nanny-napper be Woods?”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  “COULD NANNYNAPPER BE WOODS?”

  Beverly thought phillip Woods was the Nannynapper. phillip Woods. Not Charlie. I thought back to the profile. What had she said? The killer might believe he was doing something good by killing, maybe righting a wrong? Had Woods seen his victims as impostors? Fakes? Mother impersonators who, in his mind, needed to be eliminated? But why? It made no sense.

  I huddled under the desk, trying to put pieces together that didn’t seem to fit. All I knew for sure was that Beverly Gardener had been stalked and threatened by Woods. She’d gone to Nick for help, and they’d arranged to go for a 302. Woods was out of control; it couldn’t wait. Nick hadn’t wanted Molly or me in the neighborhood in case things got out of hand, so he’d left us at his place where we’d be safe. But why the secrecy? Why not just explain? Of course, I knew why. Nick was why. Nick would reveal only what he needed to, nothing else, not one fact more. Never the whole picture. Never one more detail than he absolutely had to. Dammit, Nick, I thought. Why couldn’t you trust me?

  Furniture scraped the floor out in the waiting area. Woods was back. I held Molly, warned her to be quiet, and snapped off the lamp. Any minute, any second, he’d come bursting through the door, breaking the frame or throwing a chair through the glass at the top. No more time to think or read. I had to find a weapon, something to defend us with. Beverly lay limp, offering no suggestions, no advice.

  I chewed my lip, clung to Molly, and looked from the door to the coat closet to the file cabinet to the window. The window. It was level with the top of my head. The kind that pushes open. If I could get us up there, we might be able to slither through. It was a chance.

  Something was scraping, scratching at the door. Was he trying to file away the lock? The scratching stopped, and for the moment everything was quiet again.

  “Molly,” I whispered and pointed to the window. I gestured, showing her what I was going to do. She nodded, eyes wide, and let go of me. I moved the desk chair, climbed up on it, and pulled at the window. It resisted, wouldn’t give. I found the clasp, which was old and rusted and promised that it hadn’t been unlocked in decades, but I pushed and turned anyway, trying to unlock it. Damn. My fingers slipped, and I saw flashes of white as pain slashed my fingertips. I’d torn a nail, and blood seeped under it, pulsing. But there was no time for cursing. I tried again, grabbing the clasp firmly, tugging at it slowly, steadily, with all the weight of my shoulders and torso. Finally, in slow motion, it gave. I turned the handle, pushed, and the window opened outward. Frigid wind slapped my face.

  There was a crash at the door. The sound of something large butting the solid wood. Molly jumped up and ran to me.

  I pulled her up onto the chair with me. The window looked very tiny. The door shook. I reached up, lifting Molly up to the windowsill. I pushed; she scooted and was out. I tried to follow. I grabbed the frame and tugged. No way. I was too bulky, too big to fit through. Another crash at the door. And another. I ripped off my sweatshirt and threw it out into the snow. I was thinner now, but not much. Woods rammed the door again and again. The top hinge burst. A few seconds and he’d be in. I had no time.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  GRASPING THE FRAME, I PULLED MYSELF UP. THE WINDOWSILL scraped my breasts, then my belly as I squeezed over it, barely fitting through. Molly grabbed my head and pulled. The palms of my hands stuck to frozen metal and my fingers burned, then throbbed. But I slid, slithered, and kicked, bruising my knees and my shins, clawing ice until finally, with Molly’s help, I landed on my face in the snow.

  As I reached back to close the window, I heard the shattering of glass. An arm in a pink mohair sweater reached down through a jagged hole in the glazed pane where Beverly’s name had been, feeling for the bolt. I pulled Molly away from the window and we hunkered against the wall, shivering in merciless cold. I put on my sweatshirt and tried to get my bearings.

  The fence closed us in. We were boxed in by th
ree walls of brick and one of wire, barbed at the top, and higher than we could hope to climb.

  Behind us, I heard Woods rummaging around in Beverly’s office. I thought he’d see my jacket on Beverly, notice the chair beneath the open window, and come charging after us. But he didn’t. The shattering and crashing were followed by sounds of papers shuffling. And wind blowing. I crouched beside the window, holding on to Molly, afraid to move. From where I sat, I was able to see only a few square feet of the office, the small part of the floor between the desk and the window. What was he doing? I didn’t dare lean over to see more, couldn’t risk being discovered. But I pictured Woods at the desk, looking around. Was it possible that he hadn’t noticed my jacket? Or the open window?

  I released a breath and looked at Molly, who was bug-eyed and silent, her teeth chattering. Inside the office, drawers slammed. Papers and manila folders flew across the slice of desk I could see. Files and patient records landed on the floor. What was he looking for? Then I knew: the 302. Woods was searching for the documents Beverly had prepared for his commitment. Even if he’d silenced Nick and Beverly, the paperwork could still speak. It would incriminate him. Unless he destroyed it.

  I hugged Molly and the wall, listening, waiting for Woods to find the open briefcase under the desk. Then there was an audible pause. A silence. Then footsteps clacked beside the desk. The desk near the window. The open window. Beside which we huddled, shivering in the snow.

  SIXTY-SIX

  I DIDN’T DARE LOOK. I HELD MY BREATH, SQUEEZING MOLLY. Had Woods seen the window? Noticed the chair beneath it? I waited, expecting him to pop out after us. But he didn’t. Maybe he was so intent on finding the papers that he couldn’t notice anything else. Or maybe not.

  I looked around the courtyard, up at the windows. Maybe someone would look out, see us, and get help. Or maybe the police would come to the rescue and find us before we froze to death.

  Maybe. But neither was likely. I had to get us out of there myself. Fast.

  The fence offered no advice. Its barbs snarled. The brown brick walls yawned, old and indifferent. Molly’s whole body was shaking. I rubbed her legs and arms with icy hands.

  “Here. Stand here,” I whispered, pressing her against the wall, sheltering her from the wind with my body. Distraught, desperate, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and tried to think. No luck. No inspiration. When I opened my eyes, I saw a window just above us, on the first or second floor. It was half open, smiling a half smile. Mocking? Or inviting? It didn’t matter. Either way, it was too high. I stood on my toes and reached up. The open window was about two feet beyond my grasp. Not quite close enough.

  “Molly, help me. Make a hill.”

  She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask a question. Jaw rattling, she knelt beside me, depositing snow in a pile. Quietly, quickly, we used our arms to plow snow into a mound against the wall. My hands were frozen, burning, numb; Molly’s must be, too. Frozen or not, we shoved piles of snow against the building, packing it down into a solid hill. I raced, afraid Woods would turn and look outside, alarmed by the commotion of snow or the huffing of breath.

  In seconds, we’d built a small mountain of snow, adding the two feet I needed to reach the open window. I stepped onto it and looked up. Molly watched, silent and pale. The only sound was the wind. On my toes again, I reached numb fingers up and touched the windowsill. If I could lift Molly up, she could slide inside.

  “Molly,” I whispered, “I’ll lift you. Then boost yourself up through the window. As if you’re at gym, swinging up onto the high bar. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded again. Nick’s blood had crusted on her cheeks, and her skin was fading, becoming colorless. I grabbed her, hefted her up over my head. Too fast. Too much momentum. Something—maybe her head—thunked the wall.

  “Oh God. Sorry—Molly? You okay?”

  She made no sound, didn’t cry out, said nothing. I could feel her regaining her balance, though. She didn’t weigh even fifty pounds, but holding her up over my head with numb hands wasn’t easy. “Can you reach it?” I whispered.

  She didn’t answer, but suddenly her legs kicked my shoulders, pushing off, and her weight lifted as she sprang upward, knocking me backward into the snow. Looking up, I saw her hips disappear over the windowsill, feet flying behind her through the opening. Just like in gymnastics. She was in.

  My turn. I got up, brushed myself off, stood against the wall, reached up, puffed and cursed. I could reach the windowsill, even grab it, but hanging there, I couldn’t get leverage to lift myself. I’d need to build up the snow, make the hill higher. I let go and dropped to the ground, banging the drainpipe as I fell. Damn. Had Woods heard?

  I stood still, listening, hearing footsteps. The scraping of a chair. A dark wig appeared at the window. A hand, a pink sleeve reached out. Woods had heard, yes. And he was climbing out.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  I DIDN’T DARE LOOK AT HIM. TERRIFIED, I LOOKED AROUND, searching for an escape. But there was none. Only brick walls. Desperately, I eyed the drainpipe, the wall, the window above, and knew what I had to do.

  Thrusting my foot up, I secured my boot between the drainpipe and the bricks, then grabbed a hunk of metal and lifted myself. My already frozen skin stuck to the pipe and tore as I reached higher, grabbing another handful of icy steel. Hands ripped and bleeding, I boosted my way up, hand over hand. I dug one boot, then the other between wall and pipe, pushing with my thighs, sliding higher, climbing brick by brick. I didn’t dare look back, certain that Woods would grab me. Then, finally, my raw fingers slid across the windowsill, and my hips thrust upward, lifting with astonishing ease. My arms extended outward, grabbed the inside ledge, pulled, and smoothly, weightlessly, my body followed upward, slithered inward. Serpentlike, I slipped to the floor. Snow-blind, I felt Molly crouching beside me, watching, not saying a word.

  For a moment, I lay next to her, curled on linoleum, catching my breath, letting the air warm me. We’d made it. We were inside. When I could move, I took Molly’s face in my bleeding hands, kissed her, asked if she was okay. She nodded, but even snow-blind I could see that she looked awful. Above the smears of blood and tears, a purple bump was rising on her forehead where she’d hit the bricks. She needed ice. And a warm bath. And home. I had to get us out of there.

  Helping her up, I got to my feet. With bleeding hands, I slammed the window shut and locked it, looking out into the courtyard.

  Woods was nowhere in sight.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  AS MY EYES ADJUSTED TO THE DIM LIGHT, I SQUINTED AND SAW, among dancing dots and flashing sparks, a dresser, a hospital bed, and a metal nightstand with a vase of wilting black-eyed Susans. To the left was an easy chair, occupied by a plump, gray-haired woman in a yellow terrycloth robe and matching fake fur mules. She was eating breakfast.

  We were in a patient’s room, somewhere in the back of the first floor.

  “Oh my. Excuse us,” I breathed.

  “The food’s not bad,” she answered. “Except on Mondays.”

  “Do you have a phone?” I knew, as I asked it, that she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. This was a mental hospital. “Or a way to call for a nurse? A button?”

  “Help yourself,” she nodded agreeably. “Take all you want.”

  My arms and shoulders ached, hands stung, thawing. I wiped away blood with tissues from the woman’s nightstand and led Molly to the door. But I didn’t open it; Woods might be out there, waiting. The man was slight, but he’d overpowered Nick and Beverly, had killed a burly guard and maybe five women younger and stronger than I was. I stood with my hand on the doorknob, listening. It was only a matter of time, maybe seconds, until he’d find us. There was no choice.

  “Molly,” I told her. “That lady with the long dark hair? She’s dangerous. The police are coming soon, and they’ll find her. But until then, we have to keep away from her. So if anything happens—if she gets close to you, run fast and g
et away. Understand?”

  Another nod. Another silent, alarming nod.

  I squeezed her one more time, then turned the knob and inched the door open, looking up and down the hall. As we stepped out, before the door closed, the woman stated, “Monday’s hash. Everything from the whole week, all mashed together.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  HER ROOM WAS ON THE FIRST FLOOR. I WORKED ON THAT floor, knew it well. It had wider, brighter halls than the basement, and a less intricate layout. Woods would probably take the closest, most accessible stairway, the one nearest the foyer. He’d wait there for us to try for the front door. I rushed Molly to a smaller staircase at the far end of the corridor. There would be a fire exit there. We could get out. I hurried my daughter down the hall, pulled the heavy door open, crossed to the exit, and threw myself against it. It didn’t budge. It was locked.

  But we couldn’t go back out the stairwell door; we’d run into Woods in the hall. Unless he was still downstairs. I stood still, holding Molly’s hand, debating which way to go. Out? Down? Finally, I decided. We’d cross the building upstairs. We went up to the second-floor landing, stopped, and listened at the door. No footsteps, no voices. No Woods. Why was it so quiet? Where was everybody? A pipe clanked somewhere, maybe a heater. Nothing else. No sounds of patients or staff, no meal trays, no music. Maybe this was normal after a blizzard. Maybe weekends were always sluggish and dull. Or maybe something had happened to quiet everyone. I couldn’t figure it out, didn’t have time to. We had to keep moving.