The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

Michael stopped by Christmas Eve, dripping concern and prepared for a fight. I handed him the ring without comment. Baffled, speechless, he wrote me a check. I accepted it, but the fact was that I wanted him to have the ring. It mattered to him; to me it was just an object, pretty to look at, nothing more. As he left, Michael thanked me and asked, “You okay, Zoe? You don’t seem quite yourself.” Of course, he was right. I wasn’t quite myself, at least not the self he’d known.

  Over the holidays, Nick spent more and more time with us. We talked about what had happened; he explained that after the trauma of Charlie’s death he’d wanted to protect us from the corralling of Phillip Woods. He swore that whatever had passed between him and Beverly Gardener had been purely professional. I neither believed nor disbelieved him. And I never mentioned my resemblance to his wife, never asked if he’d killed her. Beverly Gardener and Nick’s marriage were beyond my concern. I moved ahead tentatively, hour by hour, day by day, accepting that truth was elusive, indifferent to how it might be grasped, represented, or perceived.

  When she could be moved, Beverly Gardener went off to a swank Palm Beach clinic to recover. From her hospital bed, she signed another book contract and had her agent arrange to syndicate her radio program nationwide. She was negotiating for a television show. When and if she came back to work, it would not be quietly.

  Days passed into weeks. The pace of life picked up, began to feel almost normal. But not quite. There was still no sign of Phillip Woods, and I watched for him routinely, ready for him to spring out of a closet or from under the bed. Phillip Woods had become the bogeyman, haunting but elusive. Aside from that, loss weighed heavily—Charlie, all those poor women. Life was altered, would never be the same.

  When Molly slept, I sometimes wandered the house, searching for signs, for some place or point to connect to. But I was unhinged. Not long ago, a woman had lived there with her daughter. A man had shared her bed. But that woman, like the nannies, had vanished. The child was still there, her books and flannel bunny Even the man had returned. The furnishings remained—her paintings, her purple sofa, even her cursed StairMaster. But these were props. Illusions. The place was a house full of tricks that made it seem that a real woman with a real life lived there.

  I knew better. I didn’t feel real. Whatever defined me was external. From the outside, I was a friend, a mom, a neighbor, a therapist, an ex-wife, a lover. Inside, underneath, I was vacant. Blank. Who was I? Who was I to myself?

  I had no idea. But whoever I was, I was my own companion as I walked in circles, centered in a homespun web. At times a howl, or something like it, swelled silently inside my belly, my chest. I didn’t know why or what kind of howl it was, only that it was my howl, something I could release or keep. Something real and known only to me. Something, maybe the only thing, I owned.

  For days and weeks, recuperating, I paced the floors, walked from room to room, looking for something I couldn’t find. Nick was often there, sleeping on the sofa, resting in the chair, cooking forty different flavors of spaghetti. I made myself cups of decaf, felt the steam, inhaled it deeply. The howl was building, battling to burst from my lungs. No, I told myself. I would not let it go. Not yet. I would hold on to it and wait, letting it grow inside me. I swallowed cups of murky hot liquid, washed the howl back down, and looked out the window as if life were normal, as if I were calm.

  Charlie’s empty house returned my gaze. His worried eyes peered forlornly from basement windows. I met his eyes but couldn’t comfort him. It would take time for Charlie’s spirit to find peace.

  Nor would peace come easily to me. I watched for Phillip Woods, always on alert, unable to relax. Peace, I realized, wouldn’t knock at my door or ring the bell. No. If I were ever to get it, whoever I was, whatever I was made of, I’d have to go out and find it on my own.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  ITWAS TUESDAY MORNING, LATE IN JANUARY. I’D GONE BACK to work a few days before and was waiting at the door for Angela, who was late. As soon as she arrived, I’d have to rush off.

  Molly was still in her pajamas on the sofa, reading Amelia Be-delia aloud to her dolls. Outside, the sun was trying to break through heavy blue clouds. Blackened crusts of snow lined the curbs, and someone was parking a big white van in front of Phillip Woods’s house, obscuring my view of the FOR SALE sign.

  Phillip Woods. The man had worn tortoiseshell glasses, a cashmere coat, and tasseled shoes. He’d claimed to know celebrities; his handshake had been soft. It still seemed impossible that he’d attacked Beverly, much less killed the security guard, several other women he’d become obsessed with, the nannies, and who knew how many others? Then again, maybe he hadn’t killed the nannies. No one knew for sure who the Nannynapper was. Officially, the police still named Charlie. Unofficially, they suspected Woods. He’d had access to Charlie’s tools and basement and to each of the victims, and he’d had that recurring problem with “impostors”—which gave him means, opportunity and a possible motive.

  Not a lot of effort was spent looking for the truth, though, since both suspects were dead. For weeks now, no nannies had disappeared—well, one, but her ex-boyfriend was suspected in that. The neighborhood was quiet again, if not the same. Life went on.

  Meantime, where was Angela? She was fifteen minutes late. Molly held her book up to show the pictures to her dolls before turning the page. I leaned out the front door, looked up and down the frosty street, saw passing cars, pedestrians hurrying on their way to work, Victor coming out his front door. No Angela. What could have happened? Why hadn’t she called?

  Wait a second. Victor? I looked again. Sure enough, across the street, Victor had opened his gate and was rushing down the street, disappearing behind a parked SUV My mouth fell open. Victor? How was that possible? Victor was outside?

  He reappeared at the other end of the SUV I blinked, but he didn’t disappear. I’d never actually had a good look at Victor before, only glimpses. He was taller than I’d have imagined, and lanky, but the man definitely looked like Victor. He had Victor’s shaggy black hair, Victor’s pasty white skin. As he came across the street, I could see his face. There was no question. The guy was definitely Victor. Except that it couldn’t be; Victor never left his house. Never. Not in years. Victor was so phobic he couldn’t take his trash to the curb; neighbors had to carry it from his door. Victor never went outside. Ever. But there he was. Why? What could possibly make him come out now?

  “Molly?” I called. “I’m going out front to wait for Angela. I’ll be right back.”

  “ ‘Kay.” She didn’t look up from her book.

  I waited until he’d crossed the street. He kept looking over his shoulder, left, then right, then left again, as if making sure no one was following. Or watching? When he stepped out of the line of sight, I went outside and down the steps. Where was he? He’d been headed toward the pair of newly renovated townhomes on my side of the street. But they were still unoccupied, not even finished. Why would he be going there?

  Maybe he wanted to buy one. To move. Or invest. But it didn’t matter why. After all, Victor had every right to cross the street. It was none of my business. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. Why would Victor venture outdoors to go to an empty house? From the bottom of my front steps, I saw him pass through the front gate of one of the new houses. Casually, as if out for a stroll, I wandered over. No one was around. No workers. No one. The place seemed abandoned.

  It made no sense. Maybe Victor had recovered. Maybe he’d overcome his agoraphobia. Maybe, as part of his recovery, he actually went outside and took walks every day—after all, I hadn’t been watching him. Even so, why would he go into an empty house? I told myself to mind my own business, to stop staring at the windows and the open gate. I was about to go home when the front door burst open and out flew Jake. Jake? But what about Victor? Was he still inside?

  Jake hurried down the front walk so preoccupied that he didn’t look where he was heading. If I hadn’t said hi to him, he’d have barreled right i
nto me.

  “Christ,” he exclaimed, hopping sideways.

  I smiled. “Sorry—”

  “My fault, no problem,” he muttered, still moving.

  “I haven’t seen you lately,” I went on. “How’ve you been?”

  He glanced back at the house he’d just left, ahead at the street, shifting from foot to foot as if running in place. “Busy. Haven’t been around much—I got some jobs in Jersey, so I’m wrapping things up here.”

  Ask about Victor, I told myself. Ask if he’s seen him. But Jake had gone on his way, calling over his shoulder for me to take it easy. “See ya,” he yelled.

  Strange, I thought. What was Victor doing in that house? Did Jake even know he was there? And why had Jake been so unfriendly and unsettled? Something wasn’t right.

  Mind your own business, I told myself as I watched Jake hurry down the street and climb into his truck. Go home. But I didn’t go home. I stood on the sidewalk, thinking. What was bothering me? Something about Jake was rattling me. What was it? Think, I told myself. Figure it out.

  Angela disliked him; he made her uneasy. And what did I really know about him? Nothing, really. Nothing at all.

  I reminded myself that Molly was home alone—I had to get back. But I didn’t go. I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the house. Maybe I’d just check inside. Pop in briefly, quietly, see what Victor was up to, and leave. I’d be back before Molly even knew I was gone.

  I watched Jake start up his truck and drive away. When he’d rounded the corner, I swung the gate and stepped onto the property. Trespassing. But the front door was open—it wasn’t like I was breaking in. I was just a neighbor, making sure another neighbor was okay.

  I glanced around the interior. Unpainted drywall. A half-built fireplace. Exposed wiring. An unfinished stairway to the second floor. No Victor. Quickly, I went into what would become the kitchen. From there, a second stairway led down to the basement. There was a light on; maybe someone was down there, working. Or maybe it was Victor. I couldn’t hear him and wasn’t about to go look—I’d already gone too far, had no business being there. I didn’t want anyone to catch me snooping. I’d just leave. No harm done. Sneak out the way I’d snuck in.

  I turned, stepping away from the staircase. That was when I noticed the hallway. The small scarlet puddle clotting on the hardwood floor.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  THE BLOOD WAS FRESH, STICKILY WET. THIN SCARLET SMEARS led to my feet; smudges and droplets continued down the stairs.

  Oh my God—Victor! I ran down the steps, following a path of blood drops. At the bottom, though, the path abruptly ended. I scanned the empty basement, saw nobody. A toolbox at my feet. An empty worktable. An electric bulb hanging from ceiling wires. Exposed ceiling beams, concrete blocks, a wood-paneled wall. No Victor.

  I stood still, not breathing, listening for moaning or panting or any signs of life. Nothing.

  “Victor?” I called softly, knowing he wasn’t there. I could see that he wasn’t. “Victor?”

  He had to be here. Unless I was mistaken. Maybe Victor had gone out the back door. Or up to the second floor. Maybe the blood wasn’t even Victor’s; maybe it was Jake’s—he might have had an accident—that might be why he was hurrying away—

  But if so, why was it smeared on the steps as if someone had been dragged into the basement?

  I looked at the paneled wall where the path stopped. There was a patch of blood, not just drops, beside it. Why? I pictured Jake tugging a bloody Victor down the stairs, resting him against the wall at the bottom. That would explain the patch. But then what? What had Jake done with him? Where could Victor be?

  I walked around the basement, looking again for a door, a crawl space, a closet, a trunk. Nothing. Just an empty expanse of space with concrete walls. Except for one. The one at the bottom of the steps was wood. Why?

  I didn’t know much about construction. In fact, I knew nothing about it. But I tapped the paneled wall and heard a hollow sound. I tapped harder, above my head, down at my knees. I walked from one end of the wall to the other, knocking, hearing a reply of vacant space from the other side. And I knew. Victor was back there. Jake had put him there. And I had to get him out.

  I shoved the wall. I pushed and banged it. It didn’t budge. I called out Victor’s name and got no answer. Go home, I told myself. Call Nick. Let the police take care of this.

  “Victor,” I told the wall, “I’m going to get help. I’ll be back.”

  Turning to go, though, I saw the toolbox lying at my feet. I looked at the wall again, saw screws embedded in the wood. It took a few minutes to unscrew the center panel, but when I finished, surprisingly, almost effortlessly, I’d dislodged an entire segment of the wall. It moved easily to the side, opening to a secret room, releasing the odor of something foul.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  A DIM LIGHT INSIDE REVEALED A CUBICLE ABOUT THE SIZE OF my bathroom. The walls were covered with art—some kind of textured work. Collages? The floor was covered with Victor.

  His legs were splayed; his head remained in shadows. I knelt beside him, vaguely noticing the garbage bags lining the floor. I felt his throat and found a pulse.

  “Victor,” I kept saying, “wake up. Please wake up.”

  He didn’t stir. His face was masked with blood. Don’t move him, I remembered. Go get help. I turned to go, but stopped. What was that form huddled in the shadows? Was someone lying there, not moving? I dreaded what I’d see, but I made myself look closer. Angela lay on a foam mattress, tied up, motionless, unconscious or dead.

  EIGHTY

  HER HEART WAS BEATING, BUT HER SKIN WAS COOL, THE TEMperature of basement air. Her neck slumped to the side, loose like rubber. Jake. Jake had taken her, had taken all of them. Jake was the Nannynapper. Not Charlie, not Phillip Woods. Jake had watched the nannies on the street, selecting his victims. He’d seen Angela on her way to work, had trapped her and taken her here, just like the others. My God. Why hadn’t I known? I hadn’t even suspected him. Nobody had. Jake had been around the neighborhood so long, he’d become a fixture. As unnoticeable as a streetlight. Camouflaged by his obvious presence.

  I had to go call Nick. Get an ambulance. Find help. I spun around, inhaling a rotten stench. Don’t panic, I told myself. Just go.

  I took the steps two at a time and ran through the kitchen into the hall. I headed for the front door, was almost there.

  Maybe I heard a thump. Maybe I even felt a blow. But I had no memory of either. In fact, I remembered nothing, not even darkness.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  I WAS BLIND. I STARED AT BLACKNESS, TRYING TO FIND A CONtrast, a shape, an outline of anything. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a shade. My head throbbed, pulsing white pain. I tried to call out, but something—a rag?—was stuffed into my mouth, gagging me. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, turned my head slightly, felt a cloth draping my face—a blindfold? Maybe I wasn’t blind. I turned my head again and the cloth slipped slightly, just enough to let in a sliver of yellow light—yes, thank God—I wasn’t blind. But why couldn’t I move? What had happened?

  I tried again but couldn’t lift my arms. My elbows were caught—tied to my body. In fact, all of me was tied. I couldn’t lift my legs, couldn’t sit up. Oh my God, I remembered. Jake. The basement room. He must have found me.

  Pain raged in my head. I turned it too quickly; waves of nausea rocked me. Don’t throw up, I thought. You’ll choke on the gag.

  I lay still, waiting for the nausea to pass. I nodded my head carefully, working the blindfold up little by little, rubbing it against the mattress. I slid the blindfold higher and higher until, if I raised my chin, I could see a slice of the wall. I recognized the paneling. I was in the basement of the empty house, in the hidden room.

  I turned my head slightly to the left, nausea again. Smelled something rotten. Slowly, I craned my neck all the way to the right. Angela was there, lying limply on the mattress. But where was Victor? I strained to lift my head and look around, but I didn
’t see him. It took a moment to realize why my mattress was so lumpy and narrow and why, at my waist, it divided in two.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  MY HEAD THROBBED. I MANAGED TO ROLL OFF VICTOR AND,

  leaning against him, survey the room. Green garbage bags coated the floor. The kind they’d found the nannies in. And the door was screwed back in place.

  The gag made it hard to draw in enough air, and what I did get reeked. Breathe slowly, I told myself. Find a way to get rid of the damned gag. But how?

  I twisted my arms, trying to get free. Exertion made breathing more difficult. Breathe, I told myself. Keep breathing. I worked my head against Victor’s shoulder, inching the blindfold up over my eyes until they were both free.

  Under the dim lightbulb, I wondered about the artwork on the wall, why Jake would hang it in a room only to wall it off, sealed up and tomblike. Oh my God. Was that Jake’s plan? To wall us up until we died here? The walls edged in closer. I panted, pulled, pressed, and stretched, but got nowhere.

  I thought of Molly and realized I had no sense of time. How long had I been gone? Had I left her minutes ago? Hours? Days? Oh God. Molly I’d left her alone, not told her where I was going. Was she all right? Did she think I’d gone off to work without saying good-bye? Oh God. My mind raced, ricocheting from thought to thought. I pictured Molly alone, waiting with her dolls for Angela, for me, for somebody. Would she wait alone all day until Nick arrived for dinner? Make a plan, I begged myself. But nothing, no plan came to mind.

  Again I turned my hands and—twisting, rotating—pulled my wrists apart as far as I could. Which wasn’t far, but there was some slack. I kept the pattern up, determined to get back to my daughter, tugging and rolling, twisting and pressing, trying to slide one hand down and away from the other. My wrists burned, scraped raw, and sweat or blood—something wet— made my skin slippery, until finally one thumb moved down through the plastic rope that tied me and got jammed. I couldn’t move it up or down, and when I tried, pain shot up my hand and through my arm. But it didn’t matter if I tore my damned hand off; I wasn’t going to stop pulling until the rope was off. I turned, scraped, stretched, and ripped my skin. I told myself, you’re made of water, ninety-some percent water. Just pour through the rope. Think slimy. Think thin. Think about Molly and getting home. And finally, miraculously, my jammed hand slid a bit over the knuckle of my thumb. I twisted and pulled and it moved a bit more. And then my whole hand came out. One, then both. My hands were free.