Nanny

by Christina Skye

  She still insisted that Liberace go along for the ride, safe in his cage.

  Sophy’s pink gloves were back in place, Summer noted, a perfect match for pink flowered capris and pink sneakers. It was a fashion look that only a nine-year-old could carry off, Summer thought wryly.

  “Everything stowed? Schoolbooks, lunch boxes, ferrets?” Summer took the muttering as assent and headed down the road to school. Cara and the senator had left an hour earlier after a hurried breakfast of oatmeal, croissants, and eggs with the girls. The senator had been joined by a secretary and a senior staffer, who were staying in Carmel to prepare for a benefit the senator was hosting for a local women’s crisis center.

  Because today was a half-day at summer school, Summer was scheduled to pick up the girls before lunch and make sure they were packed by the time Cara returned at five-thirty.

  As she stopped at the corner, she saw Audra’s friend waving to them.

  “I forgot, Tracey needs a ride.” Audra moved over to make room, her face unreadable.

  Tracey was dressed in sequined flip-flops, a midriff-baring top, and a skintight denim skirt. Interesting school uniform, Summer thought, managing a cheerful greeting as Tracey scooted in next to her friend.

  “Sorry, but I missed the bus, and our BMW is in the shop. Stepfather #4 says it’s the brakes, but his car knowledge sucks, so who knows?”

  Audra elbowed her friend, who shrugged, then produced a pack of cigarettes from her backpack.

  Sophy’s eyes grew huge as Tracey flipped open a heavy gold lighter.

  “Please don’t smoke in the car,” Summer said calmly. “Sophy has allergies, and I doubt it’s good for her ferret.”

  Tracey sighed, but pocketed the lighter and studied Summer. “So you’re—what, the new nanny?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened to the old one? Susanne What’s-Her-Name, who laughs like a horse?”

  “Ms. Broyland had appendicitis, so I came to fill in for a few weeks.”

  “You don’t look like a nanny.” Tracey sounded querulous, like a sulky child.

  Summer smiled slightly. “You never know.”

  “And what’s with your hair? It looks—weird.”

  Audra sighed and rolled her eyes.

  “This cut? It’s all the rage,” Summer lied calmly. “Back East, anyway.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Tracey, isn’t it? You live one street over?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” The girl drummed red-tipped nails on the window. “You come from San Francisco?”

  “No, I live near Philadelphia. I taught at a small women’s college there.”

  “No shit.” Tracey frowned as Audra gave her another jab with her elbow. “What?”

  “I think Audra doesn’t like your language.”

  “Yeah, well, sorry and all that. So what did you teach at that college?” Tracey sniggered. “Crewelwork or something doofus like that?”

  “I taught serial profiling.”

  “Huh?”

  “Analysis of criminal psychology for female police officers.” Summer had decided on this story with Cara. Staying close to the truth was always the best idea.

  “No sh—” Tracey crossed her arms. “I mean, no kidding. So that’s like murders and stuff?”

  “You got it.”

  “Awesome. You dig into their minds, see what makes them tick?”

  Summer nodded. “You look for patterns and try to recognize when they’ll do it again.”

  “So you’ve met a lot of criminals and crazy people?”

  “Enough.” Summer swung neatly around the corner, pulling into a spot at the side of the parking area while little girls skipped past in bright shorts and bigger girls slouched along in miniskirts and peasant blouses.

  A California education, Summer thought. Free and energetic, full of talk and creativity. Nothing like the cold, Pine-Sol–scented halls of her schools back in Pennsylvania, dominated by the click of identical polished loafers, knife-sharp pleated skirts, and silent female hierarchies.

  She passed Sophy her lunch box, and the girl took it carefully, then said good-bye to her pet ferret, who made short, chirring sounds. Audra was already outside, waiting impatiently, but Tracey was still studying Summer in the rearview mirror.

  “You ever kill anyone?”

  “I’m not in that kind of work,” Summer said blandly. It was a lie. She’d killed once and clawed through gasping nightmares for months afterward.

  Tracey started to say something else, but a car horn sounded behind them. Her face closed down, sullen and unreadable. “Yeah, well—see you.” She closed the door and shouldered a red leather bag that probably cost a month of Summer’s wages.

  The honking came again, and this time a sleek silver BMW arrowed into the spot beside Summer. A man jumped out, his baggy brown uniform distinctly out of place among the sea of bright skirts and dresses.

  He called to Tracey, looking expectant, but the girl tossed back her hair and shrugged, bored as only someone who is sixteen can look. The man in brown—Tony’s Autobody, according to the back of the shirt—started to talk louder, leaning in with arms moving.

  Tracey was completely unimpressed, shaking her head.

  Summer rolled down her window, trying to pick up some of the conversation, but Tracey shrugged and raced off toward the front entrance, while Mr. Autobody stood glaring after her.

  Summer locked the SUV and followed with Sophy, checking out the area for idling cars, loitering workers, or any other potential threats. Her route brought her past the man in the Autobody uniform, who made a rude gesture in Tracey’s direction, then stalked back to the BMW.

  Because Cara had insisted the girls’ routine stay as normal as possible, Summer hung back unobtrusively amid the chattering crowd flowing down the hall. Sophy had a violin lesson first thing, and Summer watched Audra escort her sister to the music room, where Sophy was greeted by her teacher. Then Audra continued up the stairs, headed for the language wing.

  After making sure Audra entered Intermediate Spanish, Summer circled back to the front steps, pleased to see a plainclothes security guard in position. The woman would make periodic spot checks on both girls, Summer knew.

  She had argued for even more supervision, but no officers could be spared without clear evidence of intended harm. That left Summer on her own, which was generally the way she preferred to work, anyway.

  She checked her watch, then trotted down the steps. There was still time for a slow circuit of the school grounds before she returned to the house.

  A delivery truck was backing toward the garage when Summer turned the corner in front of the O’Connor house. The driver slammed on his brakes, cursing at a snappy silver BMW that raced along the driveway and cut around him on the right.

  “You got a death wish or something, moron?”

  The driver of the BMW—Tony’s Autobody again, Summer noted—fishtailed hard, then shot out of the car. In seconds the two men were circling and trading insults that would have made a mobster’s hair curl.

  After more arguing, the Autobody poster boy waved his papers in the air and pointed toward the house.

  The truck driver swung up his arms. “Not here. Can’t you read? This is 1221, not 1251.” The trucker gave an angry wave at the neat brass letters on the front porch. “Now get lost, because you’re costing me time, which I ain’t got any extra of.”

  The repairman slouched to the car, ground into gear, and raced back to the road, making a rude gesture.

  Headed to Tracey’s house, Summer concluded. Given his number-reading abilities, she didn’t place much confidence in how long the repaired BMW would hold up.

  She looked up to see Gabe leaning against her window, watching the BMW.

  “Whole lot of activity for a Friday morning. Tony’s Autobody?”

  “Wrong house. He was returning the car to Tracey Van Doren’s house.”

  “I thought the car looked familiar. Everything quiet at school?”


  Summer nodded, gathering her purse and Liberace’s cage. “I’d like to go over the plans for Mexico before I leave to pick up the girls.” Summer looked up the driveway as the back door opened. A tall woman in a pink Chanel suit was talking with Imelda. “Who’s that?”

  “Amanda Winslow, Tate’s mother. She charmed most of Washington in her day, and she still makes heads turn. I think she came by to drop off a silver urn and a painted platter for Cara, but it might have been a painted urn and a silver platter. She and Patrick were arguing about how to make the perfect sushi roll, the last I heard.”

  Summer had to admit that Tate’s mother was striking. Her laugh was infectious as it drifted over the lawn. “Any strife there?”

  “The mother-in-law part, you mean? Not a whiff. Her son’s in love and she supports him two hundred percent. She says Cara and the girls are the best thing that ever happened to him.” Gabe looked at Summer and shook his head. “Relax, will you?”

  “I must have missed that part of the job description,” she said flatly. “Can we go over those plans now?”

  Amanda Winslow turned as a short man in a denim chef’s jacket and a red beret came to the back door, accompanied by Imelda.

  “That’s Cara’s chef, I take it?”

  “Patrick, the wizard with pastry.”

  The senator’s mother appeared to be issuing a string of orders, which the chef listened to carefully, but he stopped nodding when the truck driver jumped down and began to unload produce boxes.

  “But I need the organic,” the chef said anxiously. “I ordered raspberries and basil.”

  The driver shrugged. “I got rounds to finish, Rodney. I can’t stand here all day yapping.”

  “It’s Patrick, not Rodney. And there must be a mistake. I didn’t order these things.”

  The driver leaned closer and waved his clipboard. “Fratelli and Sons don’t make mistakes, understand?”

  “But—”

  “Listen, Rodney, I need a signature, and one way or another, I’m gonna get it. You see what I’m saying?” Scowling, the driver headed back behind the truck while the chef stared glumly at the clipboard.

  Gabe rubbed his jaw. “The man is a genius with pastry dough, but hopeless with pressure, I’m afraid.”

  “Why doesn’t he order from someone else?”

  “It’s hard to find good suppliers. In San Francisco, he could pick and choose, but not here.” Gabe rolled his shoulders. “I’d better go help him with those potato sacks. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  Summer followed Gabe to the garage, where the young chef was struggling with a fifty-pound bag of russet potatoes, which he dropped when he saw Gabe and Summer.

  “If you’re here to cancel the prosciutto delivery,” he said to Summer, “I may have to kill myself.”

  “Relax, Patrick. Your prosciutto’s safe for the time being.” Gabe pointed over his shoulder. “This is Summer Mulvaney, the girls’ new nanny.”

  Instantly Patrick brightened, pumping Summer’s hand. “Great to meet you. Ms. O has been really jazzed about you coming.” His brow rose. “Do you like white truffle oil?”

  If this was some kind of arcane test, Summer didn’t have a clue to the right answer. “Sometimes.”

  Patrick rubbed his hands eagerly. “Great. I’m making focaccia with white truffle oil and caprese salad for lunch. Audra loves both of them. The girl has excellent taste, for a teenager. No fast food and Oreos for her.” He took off his beret and wiped his forehead. “What am I going to do about baby artichokes? I need them for the benefit dinner Ms. O is planning.”

  Gabe hefted a bag of potatoes. “You’re on your own there, Patrick. I’ve got two hundred roses and seventy-five calla lilies to worry about.”

  Up on the porch, Amanda Winslow turned, following Imelda back into the house. Summer heard something about organizing table skirts.

  Meanwhile, Patrick frowned at the sunny yard. “It’s going to be hell keeping the buffet placements warm for three hours.” He ran his hand through long brown hair that stuck out in spiky clumps. “Will we have enough electrical outlets on the grass?”

  “Ms. O’Connor asked me to work on it. I think I can guarantee you about six.”

  The young chef shoved up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles. “Not enough, but I guess I can come up with something. Chafing dishes,” he muttered, lifting a box of Roma tomatoes and heading for the kitchen. “I can probably squeeze two hours out of a good candle. Back at the CIA, they told me there’d be days like this.”

  Summer watched him charge into the garage with the tomatoes cradled at his chest. “CIA?”

  “Culinary Institute of America. He was their star grad five years ago.” Along with the potatoes, Gabe picked up what appeared to be three boxes of white asparagus.

  “I can help you with those.”

  “No need.” His voice fell. “I’ll be done here in five minutes. Then we can get to work.”

  As he spoke, a staple broke free on the asparagus box and white stalks flew in every direction. Cursing, Gabe grabbed for the broken end of the box, slamming against Summer’s right arm, in the process.

  She went pale, her whole body tense.

  “Damn. Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” Her voice was low. “Forget it.”

  Gabe dropped the produce on the grass and reached for Summer’s arm. “You may need ice on that. Let me have a look.”

  “I told you, I’m fine.” She turned away, shoulders rigid, her heart pounding. There were too many memories. “I’ll—see you later.”

  “No doubt about it,” Gabe said flatly.

  Summer ignored the question in his eyes. She had to get away.

  chapter 16

  The flotilla of trucks arrived right on schedule. Within minutes a team of men in white uniforms poured onto the lawn with ladders, toolboxes, and long planks of aluminum siding, supervised by a tall man who bore a striking resemblance to Denzel Washington. After consulting a sheaf of papers, he motioned his crew to follow him over the grass to the back of the house, where he gave the doorbell two careful rings, then checked his watch.

  Rubber soles squished over the damp lawn behind him. “Yes?”

  “Triple-A Siding, here to see Ms. O’Connor.”

  “She’s not in.” Gabe Morgan surveyed the crew and their broad-shouldered supervisor. “That a problem?”

  “We’re scheduled to do roof and siding maintenance. Any sign of termites?”

  Gabe ran his tongue across his teeth. “They’ve eaten away the whole south wall of the garage. In fact, things could get nasty out here any second.” He motioned across the lawn. “I think you’d better come inside and fill me in on your plans.”

  Ishmael Teague, electronics genius, ace computer hacker, and highly trained security operative, gave a wicked grin. “Happy to. And you would be . . . the gardener?”

  “Among other things,” Gabe said dryly. “Frankly, I like you better as the pizza delivery guy.”

  “I’ve delivered many things over the years,” Izzy said, “but pizza has never been one of them.” He made a quick gesture to one of his team, then followed Gabe Morgan down to his guest quarters.

  Summer strode through her casita, railing at herself. So she’d gotten a bump from a wooden crate. There was no reason for her stomach to turn somersaults.

  Feel the pain, but don’t become part of it, the doctors had told her. Treat it like a difficult friend, then wave good-bye and close the door.

  Easy to say.

  She yanked off her jacket and tossed it on the bed. Next came the long-sleeved shirt. At least there was no sign of blood on the white cotton. At the worst, she’d have a few bruises where the staples from the crate had raked her arm, and that was nothing to whine about.

  But when Summer walked to the floor-length mirror outside her shower, each step was an act of will, and her eyes, as she stared at her reflection, were filled with regret.

  “We’ll tackle the ground floor first.”
Izzy tapped the architectural blueprints spread out on the table before him. “Pressure plates outside the windows—here, here, here. Video camera hidden in the shutters near the front door, with full porch and front yard coverage.” His long fingers moved slowly across the paper. “Wireless alarms upstairs and down, just in case someone decides to levitate over the pressure plates.”

  Gabe nodded. “Motion sensors?”

  “Two of my people will handle that. Your suggestions on placement look good to me.”

  “What about cover?” Gabe snagged the coffeepot and refilled their cups. “We don’t want to broadcast our new security.”

  “Officially, my crew will be installing new siding and trim, then checking the window frames and foundation for termite infestation. My people are damned good, so no one will notice the sensors that get inserted under the siding or the alarms on the windows.”

  “Good. Now let’s talk about this cellar.” Gabe tapped one corner of the blueprint. “There’s a possibility of interior access.”

  “I brought materials to seal it up, if necessary.” Izzy blew on his coffee, then took a long drink. “Anyone currently in the house?”

  “The housekeeper is working upstairs. The chef is in the kitchen, too, along with an assistant. Tate Winslow’s mother is with them. Prep work for the wedding.”

  “Anyone else on the grounds?”

  “The new nanny.” Gabe sat back, steepling his fingers. “The one I told you about.”

  “That would be Summer Mulvaney, our loaner from the FBI. How good is she?”

  “Right on target so far. Audra slipped away yesterday at the Monterey Aquarium and she handled things fast while keeping a low profile. The little girl, Sophy, idolizes her already.”

  “You mean, she’s a people person? Most of your garden-variety Feds are pretty weak in the social skills department.”