The nanny murders (8 page)

Plates slammed the table. Gladys had saved me. “Tuna on rye, onion rings, hot tea, one diet, two vanilla shakes, two barley soups, BLT with, veggie burger with, two kids’ grilled cheese,
two minestrones, half cantaloupe, side of slaw, side house salad, extra pickles. Anything else?” The check landed in a puddle of coleslaw dressing, and Gladys wheeled the cart away.

Gladys didn’t believe in courses. Food was food. Soups, desserts, salads, entrees—they were all served in a simultaneous jumble. Molly grabbed the ketchup and a fistful of onion rings and attacked her dinner. The girls ate and chattered, distracted and happy again in their world and leaving us to ours. Despite what we’d ordered, neither Susan nor I had much appetite. Susan sat playing with her soupspoon and I fiddled with some pickle slices, and we yammered on about the Christmas Pollyannas at the Institute, the futility of New Year’s resolutions, the madness of pre-Christmas sales, and the drudgery of gift-wrapping— anything except what was really on our minds.

NINE

W
HEN WE GOT HOME, MOLLY GOT INTO HER PAJAMAS AND
snuggled under her covers. We read
Amelia Bedelia,
her favorite book, until she fell asleep. Exhausted, I got into bed and sank immediately into a deep, healing sleep. In the morning, I awoke refreshed. I’d slept so soundly that it took a while to remember that Tamara was missing, that Susan was a mess, that, as Charlie had warned, evil lurked close by. I had the sense that somehow dreams and reality had traded places, that daylight carried nightmares from which, by sleeping, I had temporarily escaped.

But Angela arrived carrying warm fresh scones from the Pink Rose, complaining that some construction worker had gawked at her all the way up the street. It had to be a guy from Jake’s crew. Or Jake himself. I reminded her that those guys gawked at every woman; they considered it part of the job.

“Yeah? Well, he wouldn’t look that way at anyone on my street,” she declared. “He did, somebody’d make sure he didn’t look at nobody else for a long time.”

“Anybody else.” I buttoned my coat. “He wouldn’t look at anybody else for a long time.”

Angela poured Molly’s milk, ignoring me. “The guy pissed me off, Zoe, you’ll pardon my expression. Don’t you listen,” she wagged a finger at Molly

“What’s wrong about somebody looking at you, Angela?” Molly smeared raspberry jam on her scone. “I look at you all the time.”

“It was how he looked at me.” Molly blinked at her. “How?” “Like he shouldn’t have.”

“Like this?” Molly scowled at her. “Or this?” She tugged her lips and eyes diagonally with her forefingers. “Or this?”

I left them to their discussion and hurried to work. Given the disaster of the previous session, I decided to assign a new project. I asked the group to close their eyes and picture a place that made them feel safe and peaceful. Then, distributing oil sticks, I asked them to draw these places. They responded well; apparently whatever had been plaguing them in our last meeting had been purged. At any rate, they quickly became absorbed in their work. Nobody bickered or wandered. I moved from easel to easel, discussing each work in progress, encouraging each effort.

Amanda was drawing a castle on a steep hill by the sea. Eyelids raw without lashes, bald spots hiding under a kerchief, she explained that she visited this place sometimes in her mind. I felt a pang, realizing that the place Amanda felt safest and most peaceful was imaginary. But she seemed content forming moats and turrets, her hands for the moment too busy to pluck her remaining wisps of hair.

Kimberly’s work was, as usual, a scramble of splotches and jagged lines, but so far she’d managed to keep her work within the confines of her paper. I asked her to tell me about the place she was drawing. Laboring on a purple zigzag, she replied without looking up. “Wails pills healing pillows mellow yellow marshmallows.” As always, I encouraged her and made a note of her comments. Sometimes meaning could be deciphered, sometimes not. Kimberly continued mumbling, drawing random markings apparently without effort or affect; not for the first time, I wished I could interpret the ideas she intended to articulate, see the images she intended to create.

As I approached Hank’s easel, I caught a glimpse of a
sun-drenched greenhouse, blossoms and green everywhere. But before I could look closely, he ripped the page off the drawing pad and crumpled it up. “It’s not right,” he repeated, tearing it. “It’s just not right.”

I looked at the clock. Hank had spent a record twenty-three minutes working on a drawing before destroying it. I congratulated him on that, but, panting, Hank broke into tears. The flaws weren’t in the picture, he sobbed. They were in his compulsive need for perfection. He knew what it was. He recognized it but couldn’t control it. He sat on his stool, broad shoulders hunched, raw with emotion. I wanted to hug him and promise him he’d be okay. Instead, I handed him a tissue, and when he’d dried his tears, I took his hand, reminding him that journeys were made of small steps taken one at a time. I congratulated him on his progress; a few weeks ago, he hadn’t been able to describe his problems so clearly, hadn’t had the insight. He’d come a long way in a short time and deserved credit for that. We sat together hand in hand, and I felt his struggle pulsing through his body. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed. I offered him another oil stick, and when he was ready, he took it. Pressing on, facing another blank page.

Meantime, Sydney Ellis was also making a leap. Sydney was standing beside his easel, an oil stick clutched in his fist. He’d stood that way for the entire session. Although he hadn’t made a mark on his paper, he’d managed to join the group. In the last session, he hadn’t even noticed that there was a class, much less that he could become part of it. Now, he’d claimed a spot among the others. Small steps, I reminded myself, taken one at a time.

When the session ended, I felt gratified. The group finally seemed to be responding to art therapy. I ran around the studio, humming “Standing in the Shadows of Love,” an old Four Tops song, as I stored supplies and unfinished pictures in the closet. Then, files in hand, I rushed out, and somehow
slammed full force into a wall—or no—not a wall. Something softer, woollier—something charcoal gray? Rebounding, stunned and off balance, I let out a screech and tried to regain my footing. Arms reached out, grabbing at me. Reflexively, I swatted, slapped at them, letting papers, files, patient notes, everything fly from my hands as I backed away, tripping over an easel leg, arms flailing, falling flat on my back into the storage closet. Oh my God.

Nick Stiles gawked in alarm. Panting, flustered, I tried to collect myself, rearranging my skirt so it would cover at least part of my thighs.

“Jesus,” he said. “Are you all right?”

My face got hot. My elbow felt broken. Not to mention my ego. “What were you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

“I didn’t sneak up on you.” Large hands grabbed mine and pulled me to my feet.

“You should have said something.” I’d regained my balance if not my composure.

“I thought you saw me come in.”

“How could I see you? I was in the closet—”

“You’re right.” He cut me off. “I should have said something. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I blinked at him, sputtering but unable to go on. He’d admitted being wrong, agreed that he was at fault, even apologized. He’d escaped unscathed. How infuriating was that? His eyes twinkled. How high up had my skirt gone?

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

I nodded, still flushed, and began picking up my papers. What was he doing here? He knelt beside me, helping. His knee brushed my arm, just barely. He smelled fresh. Showered. A man in the morning.

“I am sorry. Really.” He handed me a stack of files.

“I guess I’m a little jumpy.” I managed a smile.
We stood. There wasn’t much space between us, but he didn’t move away. If I did, I’d be back in the storage closet. My eyes came up to his lapel. I stared at it, didn’t look up. The moment was too long. People didn’t stand this close together unless they were going to kiss. This was absurd; women were disappearing and I was thinking about kissing the police detective? My face was hot again. I was embarrassed by my own thoughts. I didn’t know what to look at, where to point my face. If I looked up, my mouth would point right at his chin, kissing posture. Awkwardly, I turned my head, tilted it, and glanced at him sideways. He smiled. The smile was crooked. Not symmetrical. More like a half smile. A smirk.

“Well, you saved me a phone call,” I said, my head still cocked. “I was about to try you again. You were out yesterday when I returned your call.”

His eyes were ice blue. Very pale, outlined in navy. I hadn’t known eyes came in that color.

“I got your message, but actually, I decided it would be better to talk to you in person, Ms. Hayes. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

In private? About what? It had to be the finger. The missing women. Something too important for the phone. My mind raced, trying to figure out what.

Stiles stepped back, making room for me to lead the way. I took a deep breath and adopted a professional mode. But I wasn’t quite successful. Something was off. As we walked, I became increasingly aware of the blond hairs on the back of his hands. And I had the strangest desire to reach out and run my fingers along the woolly sleeve of his charcoal coat.

TEN

“HAVE YOU EVER WORKED WITH A FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST,
Ms. Hayes?” Eighteen empty chairs had offered themselves, but after removing his coat and tossing it onto the conference room table, Detective Stiles had chosen to sit on the one directly beside me. crowding me again. Was it deliberate? He watched me closely, as if studying my reactions, and his voice was muted, as if what he was saying were to be held in the utmost confidence.

“You mean a profiler? No. I haven’t.”

“But you know what they do, right?”

I nodded. “I watch TV like everybody else.”

There was that crooked smile again. As if half his face were happy, the other half grim. There was a shadow on the grim half, some kind of scar.

“These days, everybody’s an expert, with all the crime shows on the tube.” The smile faded. His eyes moved quickly, taking in details of the room, returning to me. “Reality’s a little different, though. The department works with various profilers, experts who analyze crime data and come up with a set of characteristics belonging to the perpetrator. They get pretty good results, too. Profilers described the character and lifestyles of serial killers like Ted Bundy and the Boston Strangler and locally, if you remember, Troy Graves, the center city rapist.”

I recalled the name. Graves had raped several women and murdered one, terrorizing the city in the late nineties.

“Police profilers nailed Graves’s race, age, sexual history, social tendencies, physical build, and personality traits and the general location of his residence at the time of the crimes.”

“But, as I recall, he wasn’t caught here. Wasn’t he arrested out in Colorado?”

“He was. But the profilers had the information just right. You’ve got a woman on staff here at the Institute who does profiling for the department. Beverly Gardener? You know her?”

Everyone knew Beverly Gardener. She was a celebrity, a tall, ambitious, confident, self-possessed brunette with legs to die for and a list of academic credentials as long as my arm. She hosted a call-in radio show, testified at trials as an expert witness, and wrote mass-market books on topics like the sex drives of mass murderers, the childhoods of serial killers, and the spiritual lives of death row prisoners. At the Institute, she was on staff as much for public relations as for her research. The board of directors was in awe of her. She was handled like a superstar, and, aloof and self-absorbed, she carried herself like one. As many times as I’d attended meetings with her or passed her in the hall, she’d never acknowledged me. Never as much as nodded hello.

“The department tends to consult Dr. Gardener, but since I’ve usually worked with the FBI, this is my first case with her. So far, I’m impressed.”

I nodded, having no idea why we were having a conversation about Beverly Gardener. I waited for him to explain. The pause was heavy as he continued to study me. Why was he staring? We sat in adjacent chairs, knee almost to knee. Again, too close. I fidgeted, shifted in my chair, wished I’d tweezed my eyebrows. My knees tingled. I was aware of the muscles in my thighs. And in his.

Finally, I cleared my throat. “So. What does Beverly Gardener have to do with the finger?” I assumed that the finger was what he wanted to talk about.

“The finger?”

“The finger on my doorstep? Isn’t that what you’re here about?”

“Oh, of course. Well, yes and no. If not for the finger, I wouldn’t be here, but actually I’m here to talk about you.”

About me? Again, my face warmed. His eyes were riveted onto mine. Lord. What was he staring at? Was my hair messed up? Was my mascara clumped?

“Let me explain, Ms. Hayes. It’s not a sure thing, but you might be able to help us.”

I wasn’t following. “Help you? How?”

“First, you’re a psychotherapist.”

“No, I’m not—I’m just an art therapist.”

“Okay, then. An art therapist—”

“Well, it’s an important distinction. I don’t work alone—I’m part of a team of therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists who work together. I work specifically with creative expression using visual media.”

“So you do what? Analyze your patients’ artwork? Try to figure out what it means?”

“Sometimes. Mostly, I help patients find ways to express themselves—”

His cell phone rang, but he nodded, apparently not interested in a description of my profession. “Anyhow, you’re trained, an expert in human behavior.” He took the call, and I remembered that Stiles had a degree in psychology. Shouldn’t he know what an art therapist did? Why was he playing dumb? On the phone, he gave gruff instructions in words of one syllable, then continued as if there had been no interruption.

“Not only are you trained, but you’re also in a unique position. You live smack in the middle of the area where serial crimes are being committed. Women are being abducted within a five-block radius. Experience and two profilers tell me that the perp most likely lives or works within that radius.”
I swallowed. What was he saying? That the person taking the nannies was one of my neighbors?