Nursery Crimes

by Ayelet Waldman

  “You mean a crisis as in the AIDS crisis? The dissolution of the Soviet Empire? The massacres in Rwanda? Would you please get some goddamn perspective?” I was hissing like an angry rattler.

  Stacy looked at me and rolled her eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. Maybe there’s someone I can call.”

  “Oh, my God, really? Is there? I’m sorry for losing my temper. Do you really think there’s something you can do?” My own indignantly expressed sense of perspective lasted about fifteen seconds. Stacy patted my hand and turned back to scanning the crowd.

  “You see down front? That’s Abigail’s husband, Daniel Mooney. He’s a real estate developer or something.” She pointed out a tall man in his mid- to late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair done up in long, Byronesque curls falling to his shoulders.

  “That’s her husband?” I was astonished. “That hippie dude is married to her?”

  “Was. And he’s not a hippie. He’s more of a Boho, Euro-trash type. Except I think he’s from Iowa or something. Her daughter is sitting next to him.”

  Abigail Hathaway’s daughter looked to be about fifteen. My heart went out to her as she sat there, a chubby adolescent with a pale face trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Her hair was dyed a sickly purple and shaved on one side. She had obviously tried to tone it down for her mother’s memorial service, combing the long side over the top and clipping it with a plain tortoiseshell barrette. There was a foot of space between her and Daniel Mooney. Neither so much as glanced at the other. He looked straight ahead, and she stared into her lap.

  “Poor thing,” I said. “Why doesn’t her father put his arm around her or something?”

  “Oh, that’s not her father,” Stacy replied. “He’s Abigail’s third or fourth husband. They’d only been married for a few years. Audrey’s father was her first husband, I think. Maybe her second.”

  “Abigail Hathaway had four husbands? Are you serious?”

  “Three or four. I don’t remember.”

  Just then the hall filled with the sound of an organ, and we all hushed. A small man in a cleric’s collar walked solemnly onto the altar, raised his hands to the gathered mourners, and led us in a hymn. Stacy pointed out the words in the hymnal, but I didn’t need to look. I’d memorized Judy Collins’s rendition of “Amazing Grace” long ago. I even knew the harmony.

  I found most of the service remarkably moving, but then I’ve been known to cry at Lysol commercials. One of Abigail Hathaway’s oldest friends gave the eulogy, recalling her as a wonderful wife, mother, and a resource to the entire community on child-rearing. A moderately famous movie star, the father of a student at Heart’s Song, wiped away tears as he told us how Abigail Hathaway had helped his daughter through the difficult period of her parents’ moderately notorious divorce.

  After the movie star sat down, the pulpit remained empty for a few moments. Suddenly, with a toss of salt-and-pepper curls, Daniel Mooney rose from his seat. He stepped up to the pulpit with a long, loose stride and lifted his arms to the assembly.

  “I embrace you. I embrace you and thank you for your love, for your support, for your memories of our dearest Abigail.

  “I see that some of you are crying. Don’t cry for her. Life is simply an illusion. The tears you shed are for yourselves, for us all. For we are here in the time-space of earthly life and she has gone forward, gone upward to the realm of complete being. She has gone home.

  “If you grieve for Abigail you will hold her back from that place. You will hold her back from the light. Celebrate for her. Be joyful for her. Let your joy propel her ethereal body to the home we all crave.”

  Daniel Mooney blathered on in this manner for a good half hour and actually succeeded in drying up all the tears that might have been shed for his wife. Periodically during his oration, he would pause dramatically and sweep his hair off his forehead with a flourish of thumb and ring finger. And, he never, not once, looked down at his stepdaughter, sitting alone in the front pew, isolated and abandoned in her misery. By the time he finally sat down, I had found another suspect in Abigail Hathaway’s death.

  The minister led us in a final hymn, then stepped down off his pulpit and led the dead woman’s husband and daughter out of the chapel. Once they had walked down the aisle, the rest of us stood up to leave. Stacy turned to me and said, “Do you want to grab something to eat? I don’t have to be back at the office for an hour or so.”

  “Who, me? Eat? Never,” I replied.

  As we made our way through the crowd, Stacy stopped every few feet to greet another one of her acquaintances.

  “Hello! Tragic, isn’t it?” she said. And again.

  “How are you? Isn’t this just awful?” And yet again.

  “Hi. So sad. Isn’t it just so sad?”

  I was impressed at her capacity to sound both genuinely grief-stricken and happy to see someone at the same time. We finally reached the door and walked out into the bright, dry sunlight. Making our way to the curb, we waved our claim checks in the direction of the parking attendants and waited for our cars. Just then, a young woman with a long, brown braid down her back and red-rimmed eyes touched Stacy’s shoulder.

  “Oh, Stacy. I’m so glad you came. Is Zachary okay? Does he know?” she asked.

  “Maggie! Dear, sweet Maggie! Zack’s fine, he’s doing great. I told him about Abigail, but he doesn’t really understand. How are you holding up?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I’m like, totally in shock. You know, we were together until just before it happened,” the young woman said, her eyes welling up with tears.

  That caught my attention. I immediately butted in on the conversation.

  “You poor thing,” I said. “You saw her right before she died?”

  Stacy shot me a warning glance.

  “Juliet. This is Maggie Franks. She’s one of the teachers in the Billy Goat room. Maggie, this is my friend Juliet Applebaum.”

  I reached out my hand and shook Maggie’s limp one.

  “Did you know Abigail?” she asked.

  “No, not really,” I replied. “I just came to keep Stacy company.”

  Stacy snorted derisively. I hurriedly continued, “We were heading out for some lunch. Would you care to join us?”

  Maggie looked at me gratefully. “You know, I think I would. Mr. Mooney isn’t having any kind of reception today, and I really don’t feel like being alone right now.”

  Stacy, who had been glaring at me incredulously, politely seconded my invitation and we arranged to meet at Babaloo, a little restaurant nearby. We retrieved our cars and set off in a convoy. It didn’t occur to us to go in one car, but then why would it? This was L.A., after all. Stacy and I each found parking right away and waited in the restaurant while Maggie circled the block, looking for a space.

  “What’s this all about, Juliet? Why did you ask her to join us?” Stacy asked me.

  “Well, she’s Zack’s old teacher.”

  “And?”

  “And she may have been the last person to see Abigail alive. I just want to find out if she knows anything that might be useful.”

  “I thought you had decided to give this up after your brawl with LeCrone. I thought we’d agreed that you were going to leave the detective work to the professionals.”

  “First of all, we didn’t decide anything, you did.” I paused for a moment, distracted by the thought that I’d used precisely the same line on Peter. Giving my lack of originality an inward shrug, I continued, “And second of all, it seems to me that the police have pretty much decided that this is a random hit-and-run. If that’s the case, then they’re not going to be doing much investigation. And if they aren’t, why shouldn’t I? I’m trained for it. I know what I’m doing. There’s no harm in me looking into things a bit.”

  “LeCrone might take issue with that point of view.” Sometimes Stacy can be downright snide.

  At that moment we spotted Maggie’s car pulling into a space that had opened up in front of the restaurant.

>   “Just do me a favor, Juliet. Don’t be too pushy with Maggie. She’s a real sweetheart, and I’m not sure she can hold her own with you.”

  “I’m not going to be pushy. When am I ever pushy?”

  Stacy raised her eyebrows.

  “Trust me,” I said hurriedly as Maggie walked into the restaurant. “I’ll be gentle and restrained.”

  “You’d better be,” she whispered to me, waving her hand at Maggie. “Honey! We’re over here!”

  STACY ordered her usual—diet fare. This time it was plain grilled fish and a salad with no dressing. Someday I’m going to tattoo “No butter, no oil” onto her skinny butt. Come to think of it, there’s probably not enough room. Maggie got something multigrained and sprout-filled. I got a steak sandwich and fries. I didn’t really want the fries, but someone had to fulfill our table’s daily caloric requirement.

  As we sipped our iced teas, I gently directed the conversation back to Abigail Hathaway.

  “Maggie, you mentioned that you saw Abigail right before she died?”

  So, maybe I wasn’t so gentle.

  “Yes. No. I mean, not right before. But that evening. After school,” Maggie said.

  “What time?” I asked.

  She looked at me curiously, but answered my question. “About 6:10 or so. After the last late pickup.”

  Stacy interrupted. “Maggie runs the afternoon day-care program. School ends at one, but some of the kids stay until six.”

  “Nine to six?” I was surprised. “That’s a really long day for a three-year-old.”

  Maggie nodded. “I think so, too. But we only have a few who stay that late. Most of them go home at three. That’s why we have two teachers in the early afternoon, and only I stay late.”

  “Abigail always stayed with you?” I asked.

  “Usually,” Maggie said. “She didn’t like to have just one teacher there, in case something happened, so she’d do administrative work until the last pickup at six. I don’t know who’s going to stay late with me from now on.” She sniffed loudly as her eyes filled with tears.

  Stacy patted her on the hand. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure the new director will stay with you.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. “Who is going to be taking over the school now?” I asked. “Does anybody know?”

  Maggie shook her head. “The board of directors will have to decide. It seems so weird. It’s Abigail’s school! It’s not like they could just hire someone new to take her place.”

  I turned to Stacy and asked, “Is Heart’s Song a nonprofit? Is it run by a foundation or something, or did she just own it outright?”

  Stacy thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure it’s like any other private school. It’s officially run by a board of directors, although they’re just figureheads, really. Abigail made all the decisions. I know it’s a nonprofit because I used to deduct all the donations I made every year.”

  “Unless you were just committing tax fraud,” I said.

  “Well, if I was, then my accountant was, too. His kids are Heart’s Song alumnae.”

  “Okay, so we’re pretty sure the school is going to continue, even without Abigail. The question is, who’s going to run it? Who’s going to get her job?” I mused.

  Maggie gave a little sob. “Oh, no, I hope they don’t make Susan Pike the new director. If they do, I’m quitting, I swear.”

  “Susan Pike? Who’s that?” I asked.

  Stacy answered, “She was one of the first teachers Abigail hired. She’s been there as long as the school’s been open. She’s kind of an old dragon, but really good with the kids.”

  “She may be good with the kids, but we all hate her,” Maggie said vehemently. “I don’t feel bad about telling you that now, Stacy, because Zachary’s graduated. The only person who can stand to be around her is Abigail.”

  “Then I’m sure they won’t make her the new director,” I tried to reassure Maggie.

  “Did anything unusual happen the night Abigail was killed?” I asked, changing the subject. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  “The police already asked me that. I told them everything was just the same as always.”

  “So it was just your basic Monday night?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Like every other day of the week?”

  “Yeah. Well, no.”

  “No?” I asked.

  “Fridays are different,” Maggie said. “On Fridays Abigail leaves at a quarter to six because she’s got therapy at six. But on every other day she stays late with me. Just as she did that night.” Maggie started to sniffle.

  “She was seeing a psychologist?” I asked. It was hard for me to imagine supremely confident Abigail Hathaway in therapy. I’m not sure why, since it seems like everyone in Hollywood is seeing a shrink, but I wouldn’t have expected Abigail Hathaway, the frost queen, to regularly unburden her soul. It just didn’t seem her style.

  “There’s nothing wrong with seeing a therapist,” Maggie said defensively. “Anyway, she’d only been going for a few months. It’s not like she was crazy or anything.”

  “Do you know who she was seeing?” I asked, not really imagining that Maggie would, or would say so.

  “Well, let me think. A couple of months ago the doctor called and canceled the appointment because she was sick. I took the message because Abigail and Susan were having a f—— discussion. Let me see if I can remember the doctor’s name.”

  “Try. Try hard,” I pressed.

  “I remember thinking it was Chinese. Tang? Wong? Wang, that’s it, Wang!”

  “The doctor’s name was Wang?” I asked. “Was it a woman? Do you remember the first name?” It couldn’t be the same one, could it?

  Back when Ruby was first born, and Peter and I were going through our difficult period of adjustment, we had, on the advice of a friend, visited a couples counselor. Peter had had a movie in production just then and he had gotten friendly with the lead actress, Lilly Green, a budding starlet who soon thereafter surprised everyone by winning a supporting-actress Oscar for her first serious film performance. At the time she was shooting Peter’s movie, she had been in the process of dissolving her own rocky marriage and gave Peter the name of her therapist, one Dr. Herma Wang.

  We’d made an appointment with Dr. Wang, who turned out not to be the tiny, slim, Asian woman I had been expecting, but rather a somewhat overweight Jewish matron with a thick Long Island accent, who used her married name.

  Peter and I had lasted exactly one session with the good Dr. Wang. In the first three of our fifty minutes she’d managed to drop the names of three or four hundred of her most famous patients. Not their last names, mind you. She’d say things like, “As I said to one of my patients, ‘Warren, every marriage is a partnership,’” or “As I often tell a patient, ‘Julia, you can’t expect him to understand you if you don’t utilize your three-part communications technique.’”

  Technically, I suppose, she wasn’t violating anyone’s confidences, but really, how many of us don’t know who those folks are? Peter and I decided that whatever problems we had weren’t worth spending a hundred bucks an hour to hear Dr. Wang wax poetic about the trials and tribulations of Mel, Matt, Bruce, and Susan. We never went back.

  “Yes, it was a lady doctor, but I don’t really remember her first name,” Maggie said.

  “Could it have been Herma?” I asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “Juliet’s just a busybody,” Stacy said, pinching my leg under the table.

  Realizing I wasn’t likely to get any more out of Maggie, I stopped the interrogation and kept my mouth shut for the remainder of the lunch. While Stacy and Maggie spent the next half hour or so sharing fond memories of Zachary’s years at Heart’s Song, I sat and pondered what I had discovered. If Abigail Hathaway was really seeing Dr. Wang, marriage counselor to the stars, then she was most likely going to couples counseling. If she
was going to couples counseling, that meant her marriage to Daniel Mooney might be in trouble. And if that were the case, maybe he plowed her into a mailbox! It might be a huge jump from getting a little marital counseling to murder, but as I said before, Daniel Mooney had really rubbed me the wrong way. It wouldn’t make any sense not to investigate this lead, even if it was a little far-fetched.

  The waitress stopped by to clear our plates, and asked us if we were interested in coffee.

  “I’ll have a double, half-caf, nonfat latte,” Stacy ordered.

  I thought for a moment. Had I exceeded my caffeine allotment for the day? I decided that I probably had. “I’ll have the same. But not a double. And not nonfat. And decaf,” I said.

  The waitress looked at me, confused.

  “A single, decaf latte,” I said. “Full-fat.”

  “Oh. Okay,” she replied.

  “I don’t think I’ll have anything,” Maggie said. “Actually, I think I’d better get going. I should do prep for tomorrow. It’s music day and I want to teach the kids a new song.”

  Neither Stacy nor I objected. Maggie gathered herself together, kissed Stacy warmly on the cheek, shook my hand coldly, and left.

  I watched her walk out the door and, once she had gone, turned to Stacy.

  “So, what’s the deal, Stacy? What’s going on with you and Bruce LeCrone?”

  She jerked her head up at me and blanched. “Nothing.”

  “Baloney.”

  “Seriously, nothing. Ooh, look, our coffee is here.” She busily engaged herself in pouring copious amounts of artificial sweetener into her tall mug.

  “Stacy.”

  My friend looked up at me. “How did you know?” She whispered.

  “I talked to you on Monday night. I even said something like, ‘Maybe LeCrone killed her,’ and you never mentioned that you saw him that night. You never mentioned the party.”

  “Didn’t I?” She looked pale and almost frightened. “Juliet, promise me you won’t say anything. Please. It’s over. I swear it’s over. It was over as soon as you told me about what he did to his wife.”