As in all Los Angeles area parks (and maybe those in all affluent cities), the benches were strictly segregated. About half were populated by a rainbow coalition of women—Asians, Latinas, black women with lilting Caribbean accents. Those women chatted animatedly, sharing bags of chips and exotic-looking treats, stopping only to scoop up fallen children or take turns pushing swings. The children they watched over were, without exception, white.
The tenants of the other benches were the Los Angeles equivalent of the suburban matron, of whom there are two distinct types. One group, with impeccably manicured nails and carefully blow-dried hair, called out warnings to their little Jordans, Madisons, and Alexandras. The other group, the ones I liked to think of as “grunge mamas,” were just as carefully turned out, in contrived rags artfully torn at knee and elbow. They wore Doc Martens and flannel shirts, and their shouts of “Watch out for the swing!” were directed at little boys named Dallas and Skye and little girls named Arabella Moon. I belonged somewhere between the two. My overalls disqualified me from membership in the Junior League, but, since I’m a lawyer and not a performance artist or jewelry designer I wasn’t quite cool enough for the alternative music set.
It took me only a moment to spot Morgan LeCrone. She sat on the top of a high slide, looking imperiously down at the children playing below her. Behind her, a towheaded boy whined for his turn down the slide. At the bottom, a middle-aged Asian woman waved both hands wildly, beseeching the child to go.
“Morgan, time come down. Come down, Morgan. Other children want play, too.”
Morgan ignored the woman.
I walked over and stood next to the Asian woman, who obviously had the unpleasant job of nanny to the LeCrones’ spoiled princess.
“Mine does that. Drives me nuts,” I said, smiling.
“She never come down. She go up and sit. I always gotta go up and get her.”
“Maybe if you just leave her she’ll have no choice but to slide down on her own,” I suggested.
“You think that okay?” the woman asked.
“Sure. I think that would be fine. Let’s just walk over to that bench and have a seat. She’ll come down.”
I led the woman over to a nearby bench under a shady tree and she sat down, clearly happy to get out of the glaring sun.
“My name is Juliet,” I said, holding out my hand.
She took it. “I’m Miriam, but everyone call me Lola.”
“That means grandmother,” I said.
“You know Tagalog?” she said, surprised.
“Not really. My daughter, Ruby, has a friend who’s Filipina, and she calls her grandmother Lola.”
“Yeah. Lola mean grandmother. All my kids calls me Lola.”
“Do you baby-sit for other kids or just Morgan?”
“She my only one now but she number thirteen for me. I got six of my own, too.” Lola looked proud.
Reminded of her charge, we both looked up in time to see Morgan fly down the slide, hair blowing out behind her, a huge smile on her face.
“Hmph. That something I don’t see alla’ time,” Lola said. “She don’t like to smile.”
“No?” I asked. “That must be pretty hard to deal with.”
“I tell you something: I take care lotta kids in my life. I got six my own kids, I been nanny plenty times. But this kid the hardest. I call her Amazona, she always hittin’ and beatin’ other kids. She even hit me!” Lola shook her head, obviously scandalized at Morgan’s misbehavior.
I murmured sympathetically, shaking my head.
“It’s okay. I love her anyway. I love alla’ my kids.” Lola leaned back against the bench. “Which one yours?”
I pointed to Ruby, who was still busy in the sand pit.
“Nice red hair. She get it from you,” Lola said.
I smiled. “I hope not! I get it from a bottle.”
“You lucky! Everybody think yours real because of her.”
I pulled a pack of gum out of my pocket and handed her a piece. We sat, companionably chewing, for a moment.
“So, do you like being a nanny?” I asked.
“I love my kids,” Lola repeated.
“And the job?”
“That depend. Some jobs I like more than others.”
“I guess it must depend on the family.”
“Yeah, mostly it the family. If the kids happy. If the mom and dad happy. One time I work for couple in the middle of divorce. That was terrible. Poor kids.”
“Are Morgan’s parents good to work for?” I asked nonchalantly.
Lola paused. “They okay. Not so bad. They not there so much, so it’s okay.
“Her parents both work?” I asked.
“He workin’ alla’ time. She, I dunno, maybe she shop-pin’ alla’ time.”
“They don’t spend much time with Morgan?”
“No. The father sometimes go work inna morning before she awake, come back after she asleep. Don’ see her all week. They go out every night. Never even eat dinner with that kid!”
“That’s terrible! You wonder why some people have children. What’s the point if they’re not going to spend any time with them?”
Lola and I nodded, agreeing with each other. I glanced over at Ruby, who had come upon Morgan playing on the slide.
“I know you!” I heard my daughter shout. “Mommy! I remember her!”
Hurriedly, I tried to distract Lola. The last thing I wanted was for her to discover that I had ever seen Morgan before. “So, do you live in?” I asked.
“Yeah. First Monday to Friday, but now they pay me extra and I stay all weekend, too.”
“You work seven days a week?”
“Sure. They pay me fourteen dollars a hour. My daughter in medical school in Manila. It’s very expensive.”
“I’ll bet. When’s the last time you had a day off?”
“Not so long ago. Monday night she tell me go home. She gonna stay in.”
My ears pricked up. This was just the information I was looking for!
“Wow. They both actually stayed home with their daughter for once,” I said, with just the slightest hint of a query in my tone.
“Her, but not him. I put Morgan to bed, I clean up, I go to my sister’s house. I left maybe eight-thirty. He not home yet.”
Pay dirt. Abigail Hathaway was run down on Monday at about nine in the evening. Bruce LeCrone may have had another alibi, but he wasn’t home immediately before the murder.
I decided to try to find out if LeCrone’s violent tendencies had reared their ugly head.
“You know, Lola, I just read this article that said that men who work all the time are more likely to be violent. You know, like hit their wives or their kids.” Embarrassingly unsubtle, but what the heck.
Lola got very quiet.
“I wonder if he’s like that. Like what the article said.” I pressed.
She said nothing.
I pushed harder. “Do you think he might be like that?”
“He don’ hit that baby, I know that. I would never let him hit that girl,” Lola blurted out. She was clearly hiding something but just as clearly worried about how much she had already said.
“I gotta go. It late now,” she said, gathering her bag.
“Wait!” I said. I hadn’t gotten nearly enough information from her. I decided to bargain that Lola’s antipathy toward her employers would keep her from giving me away. Reaching into Ruby’s diaper bag, I rustled around until I found an old business card. Crossing out the federal public defender’s phone number, I scrawled in my home number. “Please give me a call if anything happens, or if you want to talk, or anything,” I said, pressing my card into her hand.
Lola nodded quickly, crammed my card into her pocket, jumped up, and rushed off to the slide, where Morgan had once again begun her slow, deliberate assent. She scooped the little girl off the ladder and, despite Morgan’s howls of protest, hustled her off the playground.
“See you again!” I called after her retreating ba
ck.
“Okay. Bye,” Lola said, without stopping or even turning back to look at me.
I’d obviously touched a raw nerve. I believed the nanny when she said that LeCrone didn’t hurt Morgan. Not because I didn’t think him capable of beating his child, but rather because I didn’t think Lola would stand for it. That little Filipina grandmother seemed perfectly capable of protecting her charge. Her reaction, however, made me think that LeCrone’s capacity for violence was not unfamiliar to the members of his household. It seemed pretty likely that he was beating up on someone, and I was willing to bet that it was his wife.
While all this was certainly disturbing, it didn’t get me any closer to proving that the man had killed Abigail Hathaway. All I’d succeeded in doing was ruling out one possible alibi.
I decided to put the LeCrones out of my mind for the time being and went over to Ruby, who was wistfully watching the children on the swings.
“Hey, big girl! You want me to push you?”
“Yes! As high as the sky, Mama! As high as the sun, moon, and stars!”
“Hey, what a coincidence! That’s how much I love my girl! As much as the sun, moon, and stars,” I said, kissing the top of her head. I picked her up and deposited her on the swing.
“I got a coincident, too, Mama. Mines is that I love you as much as there are elephants in the zoo!” Ruby squealed, her legs kicking in the air as the swing rose higher and higher.
“That’s a lot of elephants, Sweetpea.” I pushed her again. For one of the few times in my life I was distracted completely from everything except my daughter, rushing toward the glare of the sunless sky, her copper curls shining and her mouth open in a yowl of glee. My breath caught as I tried to freeze that moment in my memory. I wanted to be sure I never forgot her that way, full of joy and absolutely certain that the world is a wonderful place, a place where Mama is always there to push, it’s possible to reach the moon on a swing, and the zoos are bursting with elephants.
Six
THAT night Peter and I had planned one of our infrequent, much-anticipated date nights. I fed Ruby her favorite dinner, macaroni and cheese. I tossed in a couple of microwaved broccoli florets (which would, of course, never actually pass Ruby’s lips), and I had a well-rounded meal sure to satisfy even the most scrupulous of nutrition advocates. Okay, not the most scrupulous, but good enough for me.
Once Ruby had finished her macaroni and cheese and pushed her broccoli into a pile at the side of her plate, I rousted Peter from his office, where he was pretending to work but really busily clicking his mouse and slaying Ganon and other cybervillains.
Once I’d convinced him that it was really time to go, I yet again found myself standing naked in my room, idly scratching my itchy belly and studying the contents of my closets, like I expected to find lurking therein a Sasquatch, a paving stone from the lost city of Atlantis, or the propeller of Amelia Earhart’s airplane. Or, at the very least, something to wear. Early in my first pregnancy I had excitedly gone to a maternity store, happily imagining myself in all sorts of elegant ensembles that artfully disguised my girth while showing off my glow. Yeah, right. Elegant is not what the designers of maternity wear have decided is the appropriate look for their corpulent clientele. “Cute” is the adjective of choice. Bows, ribbons, little arrows pointing down at the belly. Prints of smiley faces and happy flowers. Lots of pink.
I don’t know who decided that pregnancy requires the infantilization of a woman’s wardrobe, but I’d like whoever it was to spend a few moments with me while I model those outfits. It’s hard enough for me to look like a grown-up, since I’m only five feet tall. With my width fast approaching the same dimensions as my height and my face assuming the proportions of the moon, the last thing I needed was a frill on the collar of a pastel blue ruffled smock.
I’d stocked my closet with black leggings and oversized shirts in neutral colors. Each day I resolutely tried to find a new and interesting combination. Raiding Peter’s wardrobe helped alleviate the monotony, but that was becoming less of an option as I slowly but surely inched up toward and, horrifyingly, past his weight. I was outgrowing his clothes as fast as I had outgrown my own.
Tonight I was determined to look decent. Peter and I were going to a movie premiere. We didn’t often get invited to these Hollywood events. We’re not exactly A-list material. However, the producer who’d optioned Peter’s latest script had just released a new film, a typical shoot-’em-up action movie starring a taciturn, kickboxing Swede who made Steven Seagal look like a candidate for the Royal Shakespeare Company. While the movie was bound to be both jarringly loud and earth-shakingly dull, I was looking forward to the premiere hoopla. It had been quite some time since I’d hobnobbed with Hollywood’s elite.
I dragged on a pair of my ubiquitous black leggings, hauled them up over my belly, and confronted my closet yet again. A flash of sequins caught my eye. There, in the back of my closet, lurked a seemingly ill-advised purchase, a sequined shirt of clingy spandex in a deep, shining green. I’d bought it years ago when I went through a brief club-hopping phase. I used to wear it tucked into that leather skirt. I pulled the shirt over my head and snapped it down over my bulging belly.
There are, I believe, two ways to dress when pregnant. One possible avenue hides the belly under loose, smocklike tunics. It is the more obvious choice. The second celebrates the size of the belly, calling attention to its contents. Green sequins drawn tight enough to see the outlines of my navel fall squarely into the latter category. It was a risk, but I have to say it worked.
I made up my eyes elaborately and chose a dark red lipstick. I jammed my puffy feet into open-toed platform sandals and waddled into the bathroom.
“So? Whaddya think?” I asked in my best Jewish-princess-from-Long Island voice.
Ruby was sitting in the tub, her hair full of shampoo and pulled into triceratops horns at the top of her head. Peter sat on the floor next to her, attacking her with a three-inch, blue T. Rex figurine. They turned to look at me.
“Wow, Mama, you look so fancy!” Ruby said, smiling.
“Wow, Mama, you look so sexy!” Peter said, leering.
My two loves, each with trashier taste than the other.
“Do I look good enough for Hollywood?”
“You look good enough to eat,” Peter said, grabbing a fistful of my rear end and squeezing.
ANDREA, Ruby’s anorexic baby-sitter, showed up on time for once. As usual she had brought a Tupperware container full of carrot sticks and celery stalks. I’d long ago gotten over asking her to help herself to the food in our kitchen. For a while I’d even provided her with her favorite veggies, but to no avail. She always brought and ate her own. It was as if she thought our carrots had soaked up extra calories by virtue of their presence in our fat-polluted fridge. Like the bacon was secretly rubbing itself on them when the door was closed.
Eating disorders aside, Andrea was a great sitter, responsible and creative. Ruby loved her. They were playing a round of Candyland as we left, and Ruby didn’t even look up to say good-bye.
Peter parked the car as close as he could to the movie theater, but it was almost a ten-minute walk before we arrived at the edges of the bleachers that had been set up for the Swede’s adoring fans. By that time I was limping in my platform shoes and holding my stomach with both hands, hoisting the load off my bladder. Peter gripped me by the elbow, propelling me through the throngs of hysterical kickboxing fanatics, many of whom actually seemed to be practicing their favorite moves while they waited for their idol to appear.
“Hey, watch it, pregnant woman here!” he said, deflecting a Nike that grazed my belly.
We finally made it to the police barricades set up to keep the crowds off the red carpet leading into the theater. Peter thrust his engraved invitation into the face of one of the security guys manning the entrance. The guard motioned us through a gap between two barricades, and we stepped up on the red carpet. The area in front of the theater was lit by a huge p
halanx of hot, white Klieg lights. The carpet was crowded with reporters fawning over stars and thrusting microphones in their faces. As we stepped up, the crowd of hoi polloi behind the barricades turned in one motion to look at us. An audible sigh of disappointment escaped them as they realized we were nobody. A camera operater who had turned his oversized video camera in our direction snapped off the light and turned away, leaving us in a little, dark island of anonymity in the midst of the bright, star-filled field of red. Peter and I looked at each other and smiled ruefully. There’s nothing like a Hollywood opening to make you feel like you don’t exist.
We walked quickly up the carpet toward the door of the theater. Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed my arm, jerking me roughly. I staggered, my balance thrown off. Peter threw his arm around my waist to keep me from falling, and I turned around to see where the hand had come from. I found myself staring up at the beet-red face of none other than Bruce LeCrone. He was already screaming by the time I turned my head.
“Who do you think you are, you bitch! I’m going to have you arrested for stalking! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know who I am, you disgusting cow?”
My mouth dropped open and I stared at him blankly, utterly taken aback by his invective. Not even my creepiest clients had ever abused me that way.
Before I could gather myself together to blast him back, Peter took hold of LeCrone’s hand, wrenching it off my shoulder and pushing it away.
“Back off. Back off, now,” Peter said quietly.
LeCrone leaned into Peter’s face. “Your wife has been following my nanny around, accusing me of beating up my kid. I’ll kill her and you!”
Peter, his white face and set chin the only outward evidence of how truly angry he was, put his hand on LeCrone’s chest and pushed him gently but firmly away.
“No one has accused you of anything. Now we’re going to turn around and go into the theater and I suggest you do the same.”
By now everyone was staring at us. The reporters had stopped in midinterview. The videographer who had previously considered us too boring to merit his attention had his camera trained firmly in our direction. From the corner of my eye I could see two security officers rushing our way.
Nursery Crimes Page 5