The nanny murders (10 page)

“No, Susan. Don’t—really—”

“I want to know his situation. Is he married? Divorced? Is he a player?”

I swallowed. “Susan, this is not a date.” “Of course it’s not. And Molly can stay as late as you want. She can even sleep over.” “Susan—”

“Just in case your meeting lasts later than expected. She’s welcome to stay.”

It was no use arguing. Susan would think what she wanted. I knew the truth. My dinner date wasn’t a step toward romance or seduction. It was a step in the pursuit of a serial kidnapper and
probable murderer. When we hung up, I started for the bathtub to get Molly but stopped at the bedroom mirror.

Was I stunning? Strands of stark gray streaked the brown of my hair. My skin was pretty smooth, eyes clear. Brows dark and arched. Forehead high, facial bones defined. Lips full. The face was symmetrical. But stunning? I looked closer, trying to see my face as if it were unfamiliar. A stranger’s. What would I think of it? Was it a face I’d even notice if it weren’t on my own neck? What did stunning mean, anyway? I stared, trying to decide. I posed, changed expressions. Decided it wasn’t possible for me to decide; the answer would be found by other eyes. Besides, I had to get moving.

I took a fresh towel into the bathroom for Molly, wrapped her up, brushed her hair, and tried to ignore the persistent image of Stiles, turning around, the muscles rippling in his back.

THIRTEEN

As I
FINISHED MOLLY’S HAIR, THE PHONE RANG AGAIN
.
HE’S
canceling, I thought. Stiles is going to cancel. I didn’t want him to, considered not answering. After all, if he couldn’t reach me, he couldn’t cancel.

Molly came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She cocked her head, watching me as I stood motionless, staring at the jangling phone. “Mom—pick up the phone!”

I took a deep breath. What was wrong with me? Even without dinner, I’d still work on the case. I’d just pick up a copy of the profile in the morning instead of at dinner. Who needed his damned dinner, anyhow? I answered, prepared for his excuse, whatever it would be.

“Zoe? What’s wrong?”

Phew. It wasn’t Stiles. Our meeting was still on. “Hi, Michael.”

“I was beginning to think you weren’t there. I was getting worried.”

“Worried? Why?”

“Why? You can’t be serious. You’re a single woman. Single women are disappearing almost daily in your neighborhood. And it’s getting dark, so I knew you wouldn’t be out with your kid—”

“Wait. You think I never go out after dark?”

“Mom, I have tangles.” Molly hopped up next to me on the bed, her brush caught in her hair.

“Are you saying that you do? With everything that’s been going on down there?”

I ground my teeth and gently untangled Molly’s knots, refusing to be baited. “As a matter of fact, I’m about to head out now. But thanks for your concern. What can I do for you?”

“Head out? Now? I was hoping to stop by. Bring you some Chinese.”

“Some Chinese.”

“Yeah. I’m in the area. I thought you’d enjoy it. Still like Peking duck?”

Oh Lord. What did he want?

The knots were out. “Who’s on the phone?” Molly whispered.

“Go get dressed,” I whispered back. “It’s nobody.” She nodded as if my answer made sense and scampered away, dragging her towel. “So, what’s the deal, Michael? You trying to bribe me?”

Leave it to Michael to offer a couple of egg rolls in exchange for a flawless diamond.

“Bribe you? Damn, Zoe. Why do you always suspect the worst? I was just thinking of you, all alone there with your kid, nobody to check on you, trapped in that tiny house while all around you, every five minutes, single women are getting snatched—”

“Thanks, Michael.” Was he trying to scare me? “I’m fine. No need to worry. Take it easy.” I started to hang up.

“Wait—Zoe? Well. As long as I’ve got you on the phone, I might as well ask you. Have you given any thought to the engagement ring situation?”

Good old Michael. “That’s what you really called about, isn’t it?”

“No. Not at all. I told you why I called. I was worried about you. Have you decided yet?”

I sighed. I didn’t want to give him another thing, no matter
what it was, but the ring really belonged with his family. Still, I didn’t want to be pressured. “Actually, no.”

“No?” “No.”

He considered it. “No as in you haven’t thought about it yet? Or no as in you won’t give it back?”

“Pick one.” The man would never give up. Molly ran back in, dressed in her underwear, carrying an armload of clothes.

“What should I wear, Mom?”

“How about the green sweatsuit?”

“The green sweatsuit?” Michael didn’t understand.

“Molly’s going to Susan’s. She’s deciding what to wear.”

“I can’t. I wore that last time I was there.”

I sighed. She wasn’t even six yet. I wondered what she’d be like as a teenager. “Then wear the gray or the navy.”

“Okay, the gray. No. The navy. Wait—” She ran off again, leaving three outfits scattered on my bedroom floor.

“Look, Michael, I don’t have an answer for you, and I have to get going.”

He wouldn’t give up. “Okay. How about we talk later? I’ll bring dinner when you get back from Susan’s.”

“I’m not going to Susan’s. Molly is. I’m going out to dinner.”

He hesitated, letting the information sink in. “You have a date?” Like that was inconceivable. “A dinner date?”

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Who is he?”

“You don’t know him.”

“So. Some guy’s taking you out for a classy meal. Careful, Zoe. Sounds like he’s trying to get in your pants.” I thought I heard a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Not everyone schemes the way you do, Michael.”

“Why would I scheme? I’ve already been in your pants.”
Lord. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“No problem. Tell you what, though. This guy’s pretty lame if he thinks he can buy in with just a pricey meal.” There was definitely something indignant in his voice.

“Look—I gotta go.”

“Me, too. But, Zoe, do me a favor—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

“Just think about the ring?” He tried to cover up. “Well, of course, be careful. That goes without saying.” “Bye, Michael.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow—to make sure you’re okay.”

I hung up before he could mention the ring again. Gathering clothing along the way, I went to find Molly before she could pull every one of her outfits out of her drawers. I had to hurry, still had to pick out an outfit and get myself dressed. I told myself to quiet the flutter in my stomach. Despite what Susan and Michael might think, my dinner with Detective Stiles was about business; it was not a date. Still, maybe I’d go with the black sweater, black skirt.

FOURTEEN

S
USAN’S HAIR WAS WRAPPED IN A HUGE WHITE TURBAN OF
towel. Her eyes twinkled, her skin glowed, and she smelled like magnolia soap. She took Molly’s hand at the front door and led us into the house. I wasn’t ready to let Molly go; I hadn’t spent time with her all day. But Susan whisked her away, removing her pink woolly mittens and matching parka, and Emily ran out, and the two of them scampered off together.

“Zoe—it’s great you finally hit it off with someone, even if he is a cop.”

“I told you. We didn’t ‘hit it off’—”

“You didn’t have to say it. It’s obvious. It’s in your voice and on your face. You’re wearing it.” I was? Damn.

The aroma of something deliciously garlicky drifted in from the kitchen. I looked around. The tree glittered in the living room, presents scattered underneath; stockings were hung by the chimney with care. In the sunroom, Lisa was reading and Mozart was playing; Julie was doing needlepoint.

Grinning, Susan pounded her chest as she walked to the kitchen. “Zoe, guess what—I’ve been planning my trial strategy. And I’m going to win. My guys are going to get off.” She was practically squealing, floating above the floor, waltzing lightly along the hall, leading me to the kitchen.

I followed, unbuttoning my coat, noticing how uncluttered
the house was. There were no boots or bookbags to stumble over, no half-eaten snacks or scattered clothes. In her internal life, Susan rode a roller coaster, but somehow, in her external roles and relationships, she remained a rock.

“I thought you thought they were guilty.”

“Defendants aren’t guilty until the jury says they are. And my clients will be judged not guilty by juries of their peers, thank you very much.” She curtsied, grinning, and called, “Molly, you like spaghetti, don’t you?”

“With meatballs?”

She nodded. “Of course, with meatballs. And you and Emily can make the garlic bread. Come on, I’ll get you started.”

I stared at Susan, wondering what drug she was on. Or should be on. “Judged not guilty?” I brought her back to our topic. “But how?”

She took out butter, garlic, a garlic press. “What do you mean, how? They have a good lawyer. Criminal defense work isn’t about what clients have or have not done. It’s about their right to a zealous defense, a fair trial, and the presumption of innocence.”

I knew better than to comment. Susan would argue legal ethics all night, would spin defensively in emotional somersaults. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut while she showed the girls how to make garlic bread. She fluttered from topic to topic, happily bantering about the joys of fresh garlic in the same breath as the art of jury selection and the luster-building capabilities of her new shampoo.

“You really ought to use some—wash your hair with it before you go out with Stiles.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a breadbasket.

“Mom, what did Susan say? Who are you going out with?” Molly had an uncanny knack for selective hearing. “I told you. I have a meeting.” “Make yourself look good, Zoe. He’s a hunk.”

“A hunk? Who, Mom?” Molly looked at Emily and they both began to giggle.

“Does your mom have a boyfriend?”

Molly’s eyes widened, “Mom, do you have a boyfriend?”

“Come on, Molly. You’d know if I did.”

Susan smiled. “Your mom’s got a business meeting tonight. Candlelight, soft music, wine, and business.” She took the melted garlic butter off the stove and put it on the table in front of the girls, along with brushes and bread. Immediately, they got to work.

“Speaking of your business meeting,” Susan whispered, “what about the jogger?” “What jogger?”

Susan turned away so the girls wouldn’t hear. “Some jogger found another finger in Washington Square. They think it’s one of the nannies’.”

I went cold.

“And you’ll appreciate this—according to the news, this is the first body part that’s been found.” “What about my finger?”

“What finger? Apparently, that never happened. This just shows you that the news doesn’t mean anything. Reporters read whatever gets put in front of them. They don’t know what’s really going on. The cops aren’t releasing all the facts on this one. And guess who’s in charge of the cops? Your boyfriend.”

I didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” I breathed, “they held off telling about my finger so people wouldn’t panic.”

“Maybe. But the cops aren’t telling us everything. We’re having a moms’ meeting Thursday night. At gymnastics.”

“What are you whispering about, Mommy? Your boyfriend? Come on, tell me. Who is he?”

“Molly, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Is he that guy who always stares at you?”
What was she talking about? “What guy who stares at me?” “You know who. That guy—on our street.” “On our street? You mean Victor? Or the new guy with the Santa Claus—Mr. Woods? Or Charlie?” “Charlie? Charlie’s your boyfriend!” She reeled with laughter. I leaned over and kissed her. It was time to go. “See you later. Be good. I love you.”

“Zoe, wait—take that shampoo.” Susan rushed out of the room. “No, thanks.”

“Yes. Try it. I’ll be right down.”

The girls painted bread with garlic butter. The house was unusually calm. No television, no bickering kids. Where was the chaos, the conflict, the general tumult that typically surrounded Susan? Mozart floated through the house. Dinner was simmering, and the children were happy and organized. There was no trace of turmoil, no sense of danger here. Even grisly news of vanished women, of a finger found in the park, couldn’t shake the pervasive warmth.

I suddenly felt very alone. I went to Molly and stood beside her at the table. A dish towel was tucked into her sweatshirt for protection, but she concentrated, trying not to drip. I smoothed her hair, and she squirmed.

“Stop, Mom. You’ll make me spill.”

“Sorry.”

I took my hand away.

“I won’t be late,” I said. “Have fun. I love you, Mollybear.” “Have fun, too. I love you, too.” Her words were distracted, automatic.

“Remember, she can spend the night, if you want.” Susan was back, handing me a bottle of shampoo.

“I can? Can I sleep over, Mom?” Molly asked, carelessly dripping butter all over the counter. Emily chimed in, begging.

“Please? Please?” They were a duet, a chorus of begging. “Can we have a sleepover?”

Susan’s skin glowed, her house gleamed clean, her children were radiant, and her husband was around somewhere, upstairs. Her home was warm and alive. “It’s fine with us,” she said.

I looked at my daughter. She was happy here, blending in, entirely at home. “Not tonight,” I said. “Another time.”

“Why? Why not tonight? Please?”

They continued pleading as I buttoned my coat, and I left quickly, selfishly, before I could be swayed.

FIFTEEN

O
UTSIDE, THE WEATHER HAD CHANGED FOR THE WORSE
.
THE
temperature had dropped suddenly, refreezing the latest melt and the new rain, creating a world sheathed in glass. Trees along Pine Street sparkled like crystal under a darkening sky; branches glistened, heavy and stiff. Sidewalks and steps—even the stone bears in Three Bears Park—were treacherously glazed. The stretch of blocks between my house and Susan’s seemed endless as I stepped carefully, trying not to slip; my face stung, assailed by bits of jagged ice. Raw wind sliced through my jacket, and each breath pulled precious heat out of my body. The streets were empty; I walked home on feet that had lost all feeling, darkness grabbing at my back, a chain of icy air circling my throat.