The Nanny Murders Part 8

"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.

SUSAN'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. 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? d.a.m.n.

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, unb.u.t.toning 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 relations.h.i.+ps, 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 meatb.a.l.l.s?"

She nodded. "Of course, with meatb.a.l.l.s. 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 l.u.s.ter-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 b.u.t.ter 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 sweats.h.i.+rt 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 b.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.toned my coat, and I left quickly, selfishly, before I could be swayed.

FIFTEEN.

OUTSIDE, THE WEATHER HAD CHANGED FOR THE WORSE. THE THE temperature had dropped suddenly, refreezing the latest melt and the new rain, creating a world sheathed in gla.s.s. 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, a.s.sailed 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. temperature had dropped suddenly, refreezing the latest melt and the new rain, creating a world sheathed in gla.s.s. 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, a.s.sailed 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.

When I reached my house, I turned away from the wind, fumbling to take my keys out of my pocket with numbed gloved hands. Frustrated, pulling off a glove to try again, I saw something move in the backseat of an old, ice-coated Pontiac parked at the curb. Gradually, I realized that the something was a hand, waving to me. I took another look. Somebody was definitely in there. Waving. Or-tapping?

All the childhood warnings about strangers in cars flooded my mind. I hurried to put my key in the lock, but someone called my name. "Miss Zoe!"

Charlie peeked through the now open Pontiac window. His voice was hoa.r.s.e and guttural. My teeth were chattering, but I descended the steps, careful not to slip.

"No!" Charlie whispered. "Don't come any closer! You'll be seen!"

I continued toward the car, squinting in the sleet, leaning on the rear of Jake's frozen pickup truck so I wouldn't slip. Inside the Pontiac, I saw rumpled blankets and a pillow. A box of Ritz crackers. Cans of Dr. Pepper, Budweiser. Was Charlie living in this old car?

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

"I had to get out of the house, miss."

"You'll freeze, Charlie. What happened? Do you need rent money?"

"Oh no. I'm the handyman, miss. I work for the owner; I got no rent. I just had to get out of there. Things are much worse." He crouched back into the seat and whispered through the window. "The evil's growing, gaining power. Now, see, my dreams have been taken over. My thoughts are being monitored. I'm under constant surveillance, see. Because I know what's going on."

He was absolutely crazy. And I was quaking with the cold. I wanted to run inside, to sip hot peppermint tea and take a bath in jasmine-scented bubbles. I had to hurry and get ready for dinner with Detective Stiles. But how could I leave poor Charlie out in the car?

"Charlie. You can't stay out in this weather. Go inside. n.o.body's going to bother you."

"Miss, I told you I'd watch over you. There's danger coming your way. Soon, any day now. I'm warning you, there will be terrible consequences. We may be being watched, even now."

I was s.h.i.+vering so much that I had trouble hearing. My face was raw and my toes were frozen. Charlie turned away, staring into the street. His face glowed red, then green, reflecting the lights of Phillip Woods's blinking Santa.

"... I know what's really going on. It's about revenge. Revenge and immortality. But it doesn't matter why he does it, see, because it's evil, pure and simple. Evil butchery."

He must have heard the news about the finger. He was rambling, tying together loose random thoughts, reminding me of my Inst.i.tute patients. Maybe Charlie belonged there. A car drove slowly by. Charlie ducked. "See, people think I'm just a handyman. They think I'm old and slow. Well, I'm old, but not so slow. And I can tell he's used my tools. Downstairs. Takes my lock-boxes. My tables. The s.p.a.ce under the floor, below. He comes and goes, moves my things. And now that he listens to my thoughts- he'll find out that I know. He'll find out everything. Not only that I'm onto him but that I'm standing against him. That I'm warning you. I'm protecting you. He'll come after me now, for sure."

Charlie stopped for a long, sc.r.a.ping cough. He'd lost it completely, gone over the edge. He was raving. Delusional. He needed help. I wondered if I could get someone to see him at the Inst.i.tute. Of course, by law, if he wanted treatment there, he'd have to admit himself. But beyond his mental state, Charlie was physically ill. His face glowed, damp with sweat. Red, green. Red. Green.

"You're sick, Charlie. You must have a fever. Please go in and have something hot. I can get you to a hospital-"

"No, miss. No hospitals. I'm staying right here where I need to be. But if I disappear, you'll know what's happened. See, he probes my mind. I feel him in my head like a hot wire. It's his telepathy. In the day, I can fend him off, see. But when I sleep, I can't be vigilant. So nights, see, I stay out here, where there's engines and sirens and radio interference, and he can't probe."

"Charlie," I s.h.i.+vered, "go inside. I'll bring you some hot tea or coffee. Or how about some cocoa?"

"No, miss. You go inside. Don't worry. I'm still protecting you and the child. Because otherwise, see, you'd end up in the paper. Or on the posters and milk cartons. 'Missing.' They're not missing. See, they've been taken. He takes them. I know. He works there, inside. He takes what he wants and leaves the rest. The coroners and judges, the police-they know, but they won't say. They don't dare. He has them under his control, holds their minds. Reads their thoughts, too. It's part of his plan. Returning the children to the hands of the original Mother, the Virgin-"

His words were lost in another fit of coughing so violent that he bent over, holding his abdomen.

Ice had caked my eyelashes. My jaw was numb now, not just my feet and fingers, and my cheeks burned from the cold. Wind ripped through my coat, slas.h.i.+ng my skin.

"Charlie. You might have pneumonia. You have to call your doctor. Or tell me the number and I'll call."

I reached for the car door to open it and help him out.

"No!" he shouted. His eyes moved rapidly from side to side, searching the street. "Don't touch the car. Just go into your house, miss. Go in and pretend you don't see me."

He coughed into a rumpled handkerchief.

I was frustrated. "Listen, Charlie. If you want me to go inside, then you have to go, too. I'm not going unless you do." It was a bluff, but what else could I do? I couldn't let him freeze.

He thought for a moment. "Okay, miss. I think I can. For a little while, at least until he tunes in to my head again."

"Will you call a doctor?"

"A doctor? No, ma'am. No doctor-" A hacking cough stopped him.

"Charlie, you need a doctor. You're sick."

"No, miss! A doctor could be in disguise. Might make me sick." His eyes beamed feverishly.

"What if I knew the doctor? What if I took you to a friend-"

"No doctors, miss. I told you." He was vehement.

I bit my lip. "Let's go, Charlie."

"You go first."

"I'm not leaving until I see you get out of this car."

"Okay, okay. But don't you worry, miss. I'm on the job. Just watch the little girl." He looked around, suddenly alarmed. "Where is she?"

"She's visiting a friend, Charlie. She's fine. Now, come on out."

Slowly, bent and stiff, Charlie climbed out of the car. I took his arm, and together we shuffled across the ice to the steps of his house. His stooped body was st.u.r.dier than I'd expected, and he supported me as much as I did him. At the top of the steps, he wheezed, "Remember, Miss Zoe. People aren't who they seem. They can disguise themselves and fool you. Don't trust anyone."

I backed away. "Charlie, are you going to drink something hot now?"

"I'll have some soup, miss."