The nanny murders (13 page)

He reached for the relish tray, the seams of his jacket bulging at the shoulders, his hand toying with a carrot stick. His finger stroked it; I expected that it might purr.

I’d had much too much to drink.

He looked at me, head cocked, waiting.

I shifted in my chair, stalling. What was I supposed to say? That my hand tingled where he’d touched it? That I found him tremendously attractive? Or something bland and risk-free, like that I was enjoying his company, too? I didn’t know. I studied the texture of the stucco wall. A thousand tiny plaster splashes, solidified agitation. A mirror.

When I looked at him again, he was still watching me. For a while, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other. His eyes beamed blue light. Outside, women were dead or in danger. Here, for the moment, that seemed unreal and far away. Here, golden candles flickered. Aromas wafted by of roasting garlic, of sweet basil. An accordion played “O Sole Mio” for a couple in the corner. A dusty gondola floated down a painted canal, followed by a cart of fresh fish, swimming on ice. And I swam, too, into pools of pale blue.

“Would you like to hear the specials?” A voice slipped in and out of Italian, serenading us with menu items.

Even with the benefit of hindsight, it’s difficult to identify the precise point where our relationship began, but by the end of the evening, something had been decided. Dining on lemon sole almondine and spinach gnocchi, sipping Soave, even without a gondola, I was swept into a river by currents too swift, too strong to resist.

EIGHTEEN

TI
M ANSWERED THE DOOR, LOOKING HAGGARD
.
“C
‘MON IN
.
“

He kissed my cheek.

I hugged him. “Hi, Tim. Welcome home.”

“Thanks. It’s only for the weekend. Then I’m off to L.A. again.” He rubbed his eyes. “So, how was your date? Who’s the new man?”

“It wasn’t a date. There isn’t any new man.”

“But Susan said—”

Susan rushed to the door, brushing Tim aside with arms full of freshly folded towels. “Well?” she clucked like a perturbed hen.

“Thanks for watching Molly. Is she ready?” I peeked through the drapes at Nick’s car. Tim peeked out, too.

“Guy drives an old Volvo?” he winced.

“What are you looking at?” Susan peeked. “Is he out there?”

“He’s giving us a ride home.” I looked at Tim. “What’s wrong with an old Volvo?”

“Nothing. It’s just not what I’d have imagined you out with.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tim—be quiet. You’re talking nonsense. Zoe, tell me. How’d it go?”

“I didn’t go out with a car, Tim.”

“A man’s car says a lot about his character.”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s a fact. Somebody did a study. Volvo and Saab owners are
educated liberals, Fords are steady Eddies, BMWs are upwardly mobile yuppie types—”

“Tim, will you be quiet? I’m trying to talk to Zoe.”

“She asked. I’m just answering.”

“Zoe, why’s he out there in the cold? Tell him to come in. It’s ridiculous, him sitting there—”

“No, it’s fine. I just came in to grab Molly. It’s late.”

“What do you mean? It’s only midnight. Your dinner took only about four hours.” Susan was dying to hear details.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you guys up. We started talking and lost track of—”

“Come on, Zoe. You’re over twenty-one. You don’t need to explain to us—” Tim caught Susan’s glare and slunk off toward the den, leaving us alone.

“Well?” she asked.

“What?”

She tightened her lips, exasperated. She stomped off into the kitchen. I followed. A heap of fresh laundry waited on the table.

“Susan, I can’t go into stuff now. He’s waiting. I gotta grab Molly and go. Is she upstairs?”

“Damn, Zoe,” she complained. “You mean you aren’t going to tell me anything?”

“There’s nothing to tell. Where’s Molly?”

“In the den. Asleep. What do you mean, there’s nothing? Did you at least read the profile?”

“Not yet. I don’t have it yet.” I started toward the den.

Susan was at my heels. “Why not? When’ll you get it?”

“Probably Monday.”

“You know, Beverly Gardener was on the news tonight, talking about the nannies.” She seemed resentful. “She was?” I stopped walking.

“She’s getting a ton of publicity out of this case. She’s on the news more than the cops. What do you think of her?”

“I don’t really know her—”

“Tim thinks she’s hot.” Susan was miffed.

“Really?” I swallowed. Did Nick Stiles think so, too? Stop it, I told myself. Don’t even think about that.

“Do you think she’s good-looking?” Susan persisted.

I blinked, picturing Beverly Gardener. Yes, in a tall green-eyed brunette in her mid-thirties intensely ambitious energetic intelligent sort of way, she was good-looking. “Come on, Susan. Who cares? Tim saw her on the news. He made a stupid comment.”

“But I don’t get it. Tim never notices anything. I mean, a busload of naked belly dancers couldn’t get his attention. But this woman—I swear, he was ogling.”

Again, Nick Stiles flashed to mind, ogling Beverly Gardener. I blinked, steering the conversation in another direction.

“So what did she say?”

“Oh, she’s come up with a nickname for the guy. She calls him”—Susan mimicked Beverly Gardener’s delivery, mouthing each syllable—” ‘the Nannynapper.’ Cute, huh?”

The Nannynapper? “It’s catchy.”

“Yep. Very Hollywood.”

“What else?”

“Nothing much. Just standard stuffy, like the suspect is probably male, white, between twenty and forty. Mostly she posed and played authority figure. Personally, I think the cops just want to look like they’ve got an expert on the case because the guy hasn’t given them much to work with, in terms of evidence.”

“Well, we’ll know more on Monday after I read her report.”

Susan nodded. “And what about Stiles?”

“I’ll probably see him Monday, too. Meantime, he’s waiting to take us home.” I turned to go into the den.

Susan took my arm and stopped me, frowning. “So it’s strictly business? Nothing else?”

“You expected what? We had dinner. To talk about the
nannies,” I went into the den. Molly was in her pajamas, snoring on the sofa.

Susan sighed. “Too bad. Because, from what I hear, the man’s the genuine article, Zoe. A gem. You might want to reconsider your goals here and nab him.”

Nab him? I pictured Stiles in handcuffs.

“I asked around,” she continued. “Stiles is smart—Ivy League education. Forty-six. His father was a big attorney in New York. Mother was a society girl. And he’s single.”

“Susan—”

“Not single as in bachelor-with-a-fear-of-commitment or possible-closet-gay. Single as in widower. No kids.”

“A widower? His wife died?” How dreadful. I felt awful for him. He’d said his marriage had “ended badly,” not that it had ended with his wife’s death. Probably it was too painful to talk about.

“It’s been eight years, though. He’s got to be over it—”

“Maybe not.” If he were over it, he’d have mentioned it. “What happened? An accident? Was she sick?”

“What’s the difference? She’s dead.” Her eyes dodged mine, and she paused in her search for the partner to a pink sock. “Oh, what the hell, you might as well know. She shot herself.”

She what? Oh Lord. In a flash, I understood. It made perfect sense. He’d been talking about his own marriage—his own wife. It was a domestic thing, he’d said. A woman found out her husband was going to leave her and got pissed off.

“She shot him? His wife shot him in the face?”

“You knew? He told you about it? Wow. I was told he never talks about it. Ever.”

And the husband, I’d asked. Did she kill him, too? No, he’d replied, the sonofabitch lived. He hadn’t lied. But he hadn’t told me the whole truth, either. Why would he? We barely knew each other; it wasn’t the kind of thing you told a casual acquaintance.

“I can’t believe he told you. Zoe, the man must be seriously interested in you.”

“It’s not like he gave me a detailed report. He just referred to it.” “Huh?”

“He was explaining what happened to his face.”

“Which means he wants you to know about his past. It wasn’t all business tonight. Zoe, tell me you’re going to give this guy a shot.”

“His wife already did that.” “Funny.”

“Not funny. Look where she ended up.” Susan folded her arms. “It’s where you’re going to end up that concerns me.”

I picked up Molly’s jacket, lifted a limp arm, and gently stuffed it into a sleeve. She stirred, eyes fluttering. I kissed her. “Hi, Molly.”

Susan kept talking. “Zoe. Give yourself a chance, will you? You haven’t looked at a man since Michael left.” “I have, too.”

“Like who? That amateur magician?”

I winced, remembering. His best trick had been vanishing. “I’ve been out lots of times—Dom, that insurance underwriter. And what’s his name—the one with the airplanes—he wore all that jewelry?”

“As I was saying ...You haven’t looked at a man since Michael left. Everyone you’ve gone out with has given you yet another excuse for staying in your safe, controlled little world, all on your own. Okay, you’ve proved that you can manage on your own. That you’re strong and don’t need a man to survive. You’re a great mom and a marvelous success at teaching schizophrenics how to do macrame. We get it: Zoe Hayes can do it alone. Now, move on before it’s too late. Unless, of course, you want to be alone forever. Do you?”
As usual, Susan had hit a nerve. “Okay. I see your point.” “Good. So give him a chance.”

“I don’t know that he wants a. chance. The man has other things on his mind than his love life. Like, for example, catching a psycho.”

“But that’s just my point. Life is a dangerous and full of predators. No one knows what’s coming, one minute to the next. That’s exactly why we all need somebody we can trust, depend on, and cuddle up with at night. People aren’t meant to be all alone, Zoe.”

What could I say? Susan cared. I was touched. Meantime, while we were talking, Stiles had probably frozen to death. “Thanks, Susan. I mean it. I hear you. But I gotta go.”

Molly floated zombie-like and semiconscious down the hall. I guided her to the front door, where Susan waited, three spare socks hanging over her shoulder.

“Call me,” she commanded.

“Yes, Mom.” I brushed cheeks with her, smelled magnolia.

Susan tousled Molly’s hair and gave her a hug. Molly returned the hug and mumbled, “Thank you for having me,” like a polite sleepwalker. Frigid winds burst through the open door. The night howled, holding a murderer.

I lifted Molly and carried her to the car, waving good-bye as Susan closed her door. Molly snuggled, dazed, against me as Stiles, half-smiling at her, pulled away and headed into darkness.

NINETEEN

O
F COURSE,
I
COULDN’T SLEEP
.
I
LAY IN BED, TOSSING, FRAG
mented thoughts popping in my mind. The missing nannies’ faces, old Charlie’s hacking cough, the serial killer’s patterns. Snippets of conversations replayed themselves. Nick, saying the killer was local. Charlie, saying evil was close by. Susan, saying people weren’t meant to be alone, that I should “nab” Stiles.

My head was overloaded; images splashed around in a pool of whatever liquor Manhattans are made of. Bourbon? Sweet vermouth? I didn’t know, didn’t care. If the killer was local, did I know him? Did he know me? Who could he be? Faces paraded by, too many too fast, making me dizzy. Stop it, I told myself. Calm down. The scent of Nick’s aftershave drifted in, drenching the parade.

I closed my eyes, trying to let go and sink into sleep. Sleep, I told myself. Think tomorrow. But as I lay back, the room began to swim again, and I sat up waiting for the night to fade.

I thought about Nick. As he’d walked Molly and me to our door, he’d squeezed my hand good night. His touch had been warm, gentle. Warmer and gentler, I thought, than necessary. Certainly more than a compulsory thanks-for-agreeing-to-work-on-the-case squeeze.

This was crazy. What was I thinking about? This was a murder investigation, not a courtship. I wasn’t even his type. Was I? What was his type? I imagined a deranged woman holding a
gun. What had she looked like, his wife? I cleared my throat, thinking about a dead wife, a man’s scar. And jealousy.

Not the dead wife’s. Mine. I was, I admit it, suddenly very jealous. It was irrational, but I was jealous anyway. A woman had loved Nick Stiles desperately enough to kill him, enough to die rather than lose him. I was jealous of that kind of all-consuming, desperate, soul-searing love.

By comparison, when my own marriage had fallen apart, I hadn’t felt anything. I hadn’t wanted to kill Michael. I’d simply wanted him to go away. Now, of course, when he’d told me he was remarrying, I’d been stunned. But that was because some woman would put up with him, not because I was jealous.

But Nick Stiles’s wife had loved him enough to kill him and herself. She’d failed, but she’d marked him for life. He’d think of her every time he looked in the mirror. Every time someone noticed his scar. He’d never be free of her or her love. Not ever.

And I’d managed to raise the topic of that love in our very first conversation. I’d asked him about his scar and brought his wife to mind. Hell, I’d invited her to our table.

Hold it, I told myself—the shooting was eight years ago. He must have learned to live with it by now. Must have dated women. Might even have a girlfriend. I wondered what type she was. Great, I sounded like Tim. Which was worse, judging men by their cars or their women? My mind teased me, showing me Nick with various women, searching. And there she was: a self-possessed, leggy brunette, about thirty-five years old, intense, focused. Draped on Nick’s arm, as if she belonged there, balancing his rugged, damaged features with her confident charisma. Yup, she was his type. And she did not in the slightest resemble me. Actually, she was a dead ringer for Beverly Gardener.

Ridiculous, I told myself. I was letting Susan’s comments get to me. Not all men would swoon over Beverly Gardener. Some
would regard her merely as a single-minded, ambitious professional. A profiler. Certainly Nick would.