The nanny murders (27 page)

But there was conflicting evidence. Such as the location of the wounds. Anne Stiles was left handed; Stiles was wounded on the left side of his face. If he’d been facing her in a struggle as he said, a gun fired by her left hand would have wounded him on the right. There were other reasons for doubt, as well. The residue on his hand . . . the trajectory of the bullets . . .

I stopped reading and sat, shivering, trying to understand. Had Nick, not his wife, been the shooter? No way. In the struggle, he might have turned his head. There could be a dozen reasons that the bullet struck where it had. And why there had been residue on his hand. He’d been exonerated, after all.

I stuffed the articles back into the box, not wanting to know more, but the face of the dead woman stared out at me from a page of yellowing newsprint. Our resemblance was clear. Was that why Nick noticed me? Why he’d made love to me? I
shivered, beginning to understand. Oh my God. Nick had been interested in me because I looked like his dead wife.

Was it possible that Nick Stiles killed her? No, I told myself. No way. But my skin rose in goose bumps and my mouth went dry, insisting that yes, indeed he might have.

Agitated, I moved from window to window, searching the snow, the pine trees, wanting to find Nick. To ask him and find out, for better or worse. Outside, though, nothing moved. Nobody. Snow was beginning to fall, burying footprints from our hike, smoothing over our crumbled snowballs. Concealing all signs of our presence. From the front window, I could find not a single sign of human life.

Not even, it hit me, a car.

Nick’s Volvo was definitely gone. And so was Nick. He’d gone to see Beverly. The sonofabitch had actually driven off to meet her and left us there.

My adrenaline surged. Clutching the sheet, shivering, breathing shallowly, I heard the hollow silence of frigid country air as questions ran through my mind. Why had Nick brought us out there only to leave us there alone? And why had he left us his cell phone?

I should call someone, I thought. I should let somebody know what was going on. But who? It was the middle of the night, after 2:00
A
.
M
. If I called anyone, what would I say? That Nick Stiles had left Molly and me alone in his cabin? Or that, years ago, he’d not been found guilty of killing his wife?

Slow down, I told myself. Don’t let your mind race. First of all, forget those old newspaper articles. They don’t mean any-thing—they even say Nick was exonerated. No charges were filed against him; he’d even kept his job. The only thing the articles proved was that Nick still cared about what happened enough to keep the record of it in his closet.

And there was no proof that Nick had gone for a tryst with
Beverly Gardener. Maybe his car was gone because he’d gotten an important call. Police business. Maybe he intended to be back before I woke up, hadn’t wanted to disturb my sleep. For all I knew, Beverly Gardener’s call was beyond his control. Maybe Dr. Gardener was pursuing Nick, hounding him. Chasing him without encouragement, unwilling to accept rejection. Maybe Nick would explain everything shortly, when he got back. In a few minutes. Soon.

Time passed, though; minutes stretched into hours, and still Nick didn’t return. Whatever explanations I tried to concoct became pathetically unconvincing. The night that just hours ago had blanketed us with passion and warmth had turned treacherous, hiding secrets, concealing lies. I wandered the house. Down the stairs, through the main room. Carrying the phone, wearing Nick’s robe, I made the rounds from window to window, room to room, checking for what, I wasn’t sure. For a while, I sat on the bed up in the loft, from which I had a view of the main room, the kitchen, Molly’s room, the front door. Wrapped in Nick’s blankets, I waited for a formerly suspected wife-killer to return from a night out with a self-absorbed, seductive brunette. Would he tiptoe in? Make a grand entrance without apology? Or would he clatter about and make a ruckus, pretending simply to have been downstairs making pancakes all the time?

Enough, I told myself. What’s the matter with you? You’ve got him tried and convicted before you’ve even heard his case.

The phone rang in my hand. I jumped.

Don’t even answer it, Charlie’s voice urged. Just grab Molly and get out. But I didn’t listen to him; I answered, hoping to hear Nick.

A long inhale. An exasperated exhale. Then the husky, insistent voice. “Where is he, sugarplum? For godsakes, tell me. Is he on his way?”

I made my voice sturdy. “What do you want, Beverly?” “I think I’ve been clear, dumpling. I want Nick. Where is he? Tell me.”

I didn’t answer.

“Look, honeybun. This is serious. He was supposed to be here. A long time ago. He hasn’t shown up, and I really can’t wait much longer.”

“And I should care about that because ...?”

“Because I’m worried. The roads are terrible. What time did he leave? He was supposed to be at my condo—”

“Do you two always get together in the middle of the night?”

“Amazing, isn’t it? But often, yes. We’re both available around the clock, and he’s never kept me waiting before. Not like this, anyway. Look, cupcake, if he calls, tell him not to go to my condo. I can’t wait here anymore. I’ll be at the Institute. In my office. Got it?”

The Institute? I began to say that it was an odd place for a late-night rendezvous. But she’d already hung up.

FIFTY-THREE

T
HERE WAS NO DOUBT ANYMORE, IF THERE HAD EVER BEEN
. Nick had definitely gone to meet Beverly Gardener. He’d snuck out of bed with me in the middle of the night and driven back to town to be with her. It was incredible, hard to absorb, and humiliating but apparently true.

What was I going to do about it? What could I do? I was stuck out in Chester County with Molly, who was sound asleep.

After the phone call, I was spitting mad. I sat listening to sounds of the night, fuming. Feeling like a chump. The more I sat, the angrier I got. The isolation didn’t help. Was that the wind howling or the cry of a hungry wolf? Was it a tree branch scraping the window or the claw of some night creature?

Stop it, I told myself. No one’s out there. It’s just your nerves. Still, I walked around in the dark, checking doors and windows, making sure they were locked. I checked on Molly every few minutes, comforted by the steady sound of her breath. I went up to the loft and peered out the window, feeling trapped and frantic. Furious at Nick for bringing us there, at myself for having come. Up in the loft, I stared out at the night. I lay down, tried to sleep, pictured Nick with Beverly, sat up, and stared out at the night again. I paced, went down to the main room, back up to the loft. Despite myself, I could see what he saw in her; the woman had charisma. She was a celebrity. But I asked myself over and over why Nick had taken us there if he’d wanted
to be with Beverly. I had no answers and eventually got sick of asking. All I knew was that I wanted out. I wanted to go home.

Finally, the sky began to lighten. It was almost dawn, and Nick was still gone. Downstairs again, I stopped pacing and stared at the front door. What was I supposed to do? Stay there all day and wait? The front door gave no reply.

But Charlie did. “Get out, Miss Zoe!” I heard him wheeze. “Hurry up. Leave before it’s too late.”

I didn’t argue. I wanted to get the hell out of there, not wait around to hear excuses and lies. But how was I supposed to leave? Nick had taken the car. Should I call a cab? Did they even have cabs way out in Chester County? At the crack of dawn?

Finally, as the sun rose higher, I’d had enough. I wasn’t helpless, didn’t have to stay there waiting. I had options. The Volvo was gone, but Molly and I had legs. There were snowshoes in the shed. We could walk back to Philadelphia if we had to, or at least to a highway. I’d take the cell phone, and when we found a main road I’d call Susan and tell her where we were. She’d come and get us. Good. I felt better already; I wasn’t trapped. I had a plan.

I gathered my clothing in a rush, but trembling, rushing, I had trouble putting it on. My feet kept missing, wouldn’t go into the leg holes of my jeans, got stuck halfway. The harder I shoved my feet into them, the more the fabric resisted. Finally, I gathered the material at the bottom and held it open, aiming my toes through the holes as if I were threading a needle. Calm down, I told myself. Find your socks. Put on your boots. My skin stung as my sweater rubbed spots Nick’s rough whiskers had scraped raw. Damn Nick. Cheating lying sonofabitch. Controlling manipulating two-faced bastard. Cursing him felt good. I straightened my sweater and smeared away angry tears with the back of my hand.

Finally, my clothes were on. I was ready to go. All I had to do was bundle up Molly and get the snowshoes. Then we’d hit the road.

FIFTY-FOUR

M
OLLY’S FIRST THOUGHT UPON WAKING WAS ABOUT HER
tooth. It was still there, hanging tentatively to a few strands of tissue. Her second thought was of Nick.

“He’s not here.”

“Why not? Where’d he go?”

“He went back to town. Here. Put your socks on.”

“Why’d he go back to town?”

“He didn’t say.”

“But Mommy, he said we could make banana pancakes. He promised.”

“I know. Something came up. Here, pull this over the turtle-neck. It’s cold out.”

“Can we make pancakes, Mommy?”

“Maybe later. Not now. Now we’re going outside. Put your arm in.”

“But Nick said—”

“Mollybear, put your arm in the sleeve? Good.” “He said we could—”

“For now, let’s fix just a snack, okay? We’ll see about pancakes later.”

Finally, she was dressed. I made cinnamon toast and filled a thermos with hot cocoa for the road. I’d never walked in snow-shoes, had no idea if Molly would be able to. Maybe Nick had a sled. A sled would be much better, easier to negotiate.

I looked out the kitchen window, squinting at the shed, searching, hoping to see a sled. Snow was falling in large, heavy flakes. The woodpile was already buried, a tiny lump on a blanket-covered mountain. I couldn’t see a sled, but there might be one out there. If there was no sled, we’d put on the snow-shoes and be on our way. I zipped Molly into her jacket and gazed outside, assessing the depth of the snow—and dimly, through the blizzard, I saw a bulky shape hunkering at the door of the shed. Forget the damned snowshoes, I thought. We had a better way to get home.

It was sitting right there by the shed, a big yellow plow hooked up to its front end. I could drive a stick shift, could probably manage a pickup truck.

I pulled on my jacket. Good. I had a new plan. First, we’d gather our bags and pack up our toast and cocoa. Then, we’d go out back, climb into that baby, start the engine, and roar the fuck out of there.

FIFTY-FIVE

G
ET THE KEYS,
I
TOLD MYSELF
.
BUT WHERE WERE THE KEYS?
Were we never going to get out of there? Nick’s bags were scattered near the door. Maybe the keys were in there. Unless they were outside in the truck. Damn. I hadn’t seen keys when I’d looked through his stuff. Maybe they were hanging on a hook somewhere, or lying in a kitchen drawer.

“What are you doing?” Molly watched me ransack Nick’s kitchen.

“Looking for keys to Nick’s truck. We’re going for a ride.” “But I want to make a snowman. And a fort. And Nick said—”

“Molly, sweetheart. We can do other stuff later. Help me find the keys.”

I opened Nick’s overnight bag, found a sweater, jeans, a book. A holster. No keys. For the second time that night, I scanned the shelves, rifled through drawer after drawer, even opened a cookie jar. It contained cookies. While Molly ate one, I found a flashlight, candles, and a kerosene lamp, but no keys. I looked in nightstands, behind doors. In the broom closet, I found a shotgun and some shells; inside his shaving kit, a razor, a toothbrush, condoms, deodorant. No keys.

Then, in the upstairs bathroom, the light revealed a piece of paper taped to the mirror. A note from Nick.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. I didn’t want to wake you. I had
to run an errand, but I’ll be back in time to make pancakes. I’ll bring the bananas. See you soon. Nick.”

Good morning? When he’d written the note, he was planning to be gone all night. He hadn’t expected me to wake up and find him gone, hadn’t counted on Beverly calling again and again, waking me up. Filling me in. No, Nick had thought himself very clever, leaving a note that he’d gone out only to do an errand. A note that had been deliberately, carefully written to deceive me. From a man who may have killed his wife. I shivered at the possibility. How sinister—how dangerous—was Nick? What kind of man was he? Damn him, anyway. I tore up the note, threw it into the toilet, and flushed, hoping it would stop up his plumbing. Flood the whole goddam place. But the note didn’t go down. Its pieces sat sodden, floating on the water.

“Did you find them?” Molly called.

The keys, I remembered. “No, not yet.”

“Let’s face it, Mommy. They’re not here. Let’s just make a fort? Can we? Please?”

I came downstairs. “Mollybear, don’t whine. Think. If we lived here, where would we keep the keys to our snowplow?”

“Somewhere easy to find them.”

“Right—someplace we could get to them quickly if it snowed really hard.”

“Somewhere in the shed?”

She was probably right. They must be in the shed. On a hook. Or in the truck itself.

“Molly, you’re a genius.” I looked out at large, dense snowflakes, falling heavily in the eerie morning glow.

Carrying the phone, our overnight bags, the thermos, and the flashlight, I took Molly by the hand and trudged outside. The sun hadn’t quite made it above the pine trees; snow and sky blended seamlessly, fading from ominous to forbidding shades
of gray. The pines seemed nearer than before, closing in like the snow, and though I knew no one was among them, I didn’t look to the left or right, dreading what I might see. My eyes remained directly ahead, fixed on the swirling snow. We trekked through drifts, knee deep for me, hip high for Molly, grunting and panting through gusts of wind, tasting flakes that blew into our mouths, stopping several times for Molly to catch her breath or balance, for me to rearrange my load.