The nanny murders (25 page)

Well, I wasn’t going to find out. I wouldn’t risk it. I was
vulnerable and needy; that was why I was drawn to Nick. Besides, I didn’t know what was going on with him. In the duration of a gunshot, Nick had gone from barely speaking to me to carrying me off to his cabin in Chester County. So far, he’d given no indication that he was interested in renewing a personal relationship. He’d made no innuendos, no passes, no references to either our disastrous one-night stand or the future. Maybe the truth was just what he’d said, that he wanted to give Molly and me a weekend of relaxation in the country. I’d accept it as that and keep my thoughts out of his arms and away from his body. Still, I remembered lying against him, fitting snugly, feeling safe, and the memory made me ache.

Nick’s snores harmonized with Molly’s. Bass and soprano, in stereo with complementary rhythm. I listened, watching them sleep until my eyes burned, letting go of memories and possibilities. Then, lulled by their snores and the flicker of hungry flames, I sank back into a warm, rum-coated sleep.

FORTY-SEVEN

I
AWOKE IN SHADOWS, NOT RECOGNIZING WHERE
I
WAS
. T
HE
air was cold, smelled foreign. Like ashes. And cedar. And pine. I tried to sit up; my head felt like a sack of sand. Dim light seeped through the window blinds. Dusk. A dying fire. I blinked, orienting myself. “Molly? Nick?”

No answer. I got up, searching. “Nick? Molly?”

My voice hung forlornly, drifting through the empty room. I went to the window. Tall pines ringed the farmhouse like frozen sentries, rigid at attention. But no Nick. No Molly. I crossed, weightless, to the kitchen.

Yes, there they were, out back. Trekking through the glowing snow toward a woodpile. Behind them, through the open doors of a shed, I saw a pair of yellow snowmobiles, ski equipment, snowshoes hanging on the walls. A snowplow hunkered beside the shed like an oversized dog. Nick’s toys.

I wandered into the bathroom and splashed my face with water, waking up. The mirror shocked me. Dark semicircles underlined my eyes. My skin was pasty, my lips chapped and rough. I looked hollow, but I felt better, more alert. Slapping some color into my cheeks, smoothing my hair back, I went for my jacket and joined them outside.

“Mommy’s up!” Molly squealed. “We’re getting firewood.”

Cheeks glowing, she climbed through thigh-high snow, hand in hand with Nick.

“Feeling better?” Nick half-smiled, welcoming me, and we walked the snowy countryside around his house. The cold, fresh air revitalized me, and when Nick stopped to tighten a bootlace, I couldn’t help it. I creamed him with a snowball. Right between the eyes. A battle ensued, a flurry of dusty white ammunition, flying arms and legs, and laughter. Molly ambushed us both by pretending to be hurt, then blasting us with two fierce chunks of snow when we came to her aid. We all froze our fingers, noses, and toes. We tumbled. We played. The horrors of the day before—of the past month—got lost in a frosty flurry. For the first time in years, I felt mischievous, silly, goofy. As the sun set, I rolled with Molly down hills of frozen white down, hung upside down over Nick’s shoulder, landed in pillows of soft snow. By the time it got dark and we came inside, a lost part of my life had been restored. partly because of Molly. Mostly because of Nick.

FORTY-EIGHT

I
WASHED MOLLY’S HAIR AND LET HER SOAK IN A WARM, BUBBLY
tub. When I came out, Nick was putting water up for pasta. I offered to help cook, got turned down. He handed me a glass of wine and told me to sit. I sat and leaned against the island, relaxed and a little dreamy

“Can we talk about what happened with Charlie?” Nick gulped some wine.

The question startled me. At the mention of Charlie, my chest tightened, banishing whatever relaxation I’d felt. I didn’t want to talk about Charlie, didn’t want to remember why we’d come to the cabin or what had happened back home. “You saw my statement to the police. What else is there to say?”

“Details. Like what he talked about just before he died. Was he rational?” Nick sounded like a cop now. His shoulders rolled as he turned a pan, spreading olive oil.

My head began to throb. “He said he was there to protect us.”

The shoulders stopped rolling, held stock still. “Protect you. From what?”

Near the pantry, Charlie raised a finger to his lips, hushing me, but I went on. “From evil. I assumed he meant the nanny killer.”

“And Charlie was going to keep you safe.” His shoulders relaxed. He reached for a paring knife. “By stalking you.”

“By watching us. Guarding us. He said he knew the killer and that I’d let him get too close, but he’d keep Molly and me safe.”

Nick lifted an eyebrow. “But he never said who the killer was?” “No.”

Nick gathered vegetables from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. Releasing a long sigh, he swallowed more wine and stared intensely at an eggplant. Neither of us spoke. The conversation felt strained and uneven. I felt awkward and self-conscious, not clear on our ground rules. Were we cop and witness? Detective and consultant? Former jilter and jiltee? What? I wanted to change the subject, re-create the lightness we’d shared outside. Nick had other ideas.

“I talked to Beverly about him.”

Oh. I’d almost forgotten about Beverly. The captivating Dr. Gardener. As long as we were chatting, I should ask about their “deal.” “And?”

“And she had some interesting comments.”

He wanted me to ask. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

Nick leaned against the counter, crossing his arms in a casual, professorial pose, knife in hand. About to deliver a lecture? A knife as his pointer? “She said that paranoid delusions like Charlie’s can be insidious—so detailed and vivid that even psychiatrists sometimes buy into them.”

“So?”

“So you might find yourself believing what Charlie said. Even small parts of it. And if you do, you need to sort it out.”

I didn’t understand. He didn’t make sense. Was he implying that by listening to Charlie I’d become delusional? That Charlie’s madness was contagious? That I’d caught it?

“Beverly says Charlie’s delusions must have begun way before the nannies began to disappear,” he went on, “and that the person he was guarding you from was none other than himself— that is, part of himself.”

“What?”

“Charlie divided himself into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ parts. His good part didn’t like the bad, so he blocked it out and gave his bad self a separate identity. In other words, he created an evil alter ego out of his own dark side.”

“And that’s who was reading his thoughts? His alter ego?”

“Exactly. The evil murderer who wired his dreams and listened in on his thoughts was really himself. His own other half.”

“Beverly Gardener said all this?”

“She’s very smart.”

“And she knew so much about Charlie because—”

“Because of the police investigation. And what you said in your response to her profile report.” His words merged, became a steady flow of senseless syllables. Beverly Gardener was apparently Nick’s ultimate authority on everything, but I wasn’t sure she was as smart as he thought. How could she claim to know so much about a man she’d never met? Her explanation was all theory, a bunch of impressive psychological terms thrown together to sound good, nothing to do with the real Charlie. Nick spoke slowly, as if doubting that I could follow him. My fingers were ice. Coming close, he put his hands over them and squeezed, pressing warmth into my skin.

“The victims were ordinary women. But Beverly’s convinced that to Charlie they were substitutes for another woman who’s anything but ordinary. A woman who was very special to him. A woman he watched tirelessly from afar and was fascinated with to the point of obsession. Zoe Hayes.”

Me? Charlie was obsessed with me? The idea was unfathomable. Behind Nick, in the shadows, Charlie harrumphed indignantly as Nick’s voice sailed past me, full speed ahead, skimming the surface, not sinking in. I sat still, aware of the meaty warmth of his hands.

He kept talking. I heard him repeat Beverly Gardener’s name,
recite her comments point by point. Did he memorize everything she said? Ask him, I thought. Go ahead. But I didn’t ask, didn’t want to hear his answer.

“Nick, if it’s okay—can we not talk about this anymore?”

“Sure. It’s a lot to digest all at once.” He released my hands and went back to his vegetables. Chop, chop. Dice, slice. Another swig of wine. He lopped the florets off broccoli. I listened to the blade hit the wood, heard the screaming of mushrooms, the rending of veggie flesh. Veggie flesh? Oh please, I told myself. Not every situation is one of culprit and victim. I needed to let go of my pervasive sense of danger.

“I can understand why you don’t want to talk about him,” Nick said. “But you’re safe now. Charlie won’t be bothering you anymore.”

Except that he was, even at that moment, bothering me. Making faces at Nick’s knife, mocking his chopping motions. Nick’s knife twinkled, dripped tomato seeds onto the floor.

Finally, he stopped cutting. “Okay, enough. You’re right. We should put all of this aside.”

Put it aside? Where? On the counter beside the bread?

“You look pensive. Is there something else, honey?”

Honey? I took a breath. Swallowed. Nick liked me. He wasn’t just being a cop; he’d called me “honey.” It was odd, alien. Paternalistic? Maybe, but still nice, sort of. What was going through honey’s mind? Images, not words. Images of Nick’s buns as he prepared dinner. Did I want to talk about them? Uh-uh. Images of Beverly Gardener with her glossed lips and implant-enhanced breasts. Images of a lopped-off, polished pinkie. And images of Charlie. Charlie on his porch, on my steps, in his Pontiac. I could almost hear his hoarse cough.

Okay, I’d tell him. “Charlie was sick,” I said, “but Charlie didn’t kill anyone. He couldn’t have. He was harmless.”

Nick hesitated, taking in the comment. “What makes you so sure?”

“I just know.”

“Well, there’s a lot of physical evidence that disagrees with you. Body parts were found in his damn basement, Zoe.” “I know.”

“So how can you be sure that he’s innocent?” “Charlie wasn’t a killer.”

“Not the side of him he showed the world. That side didn’t seem like a murderer. If it had, he’d never have gotten close to the victims. But who’d suspect an old handyman with arthritic knees? No one. That’s exactly why the nannies didn’t run off while they could.”

I wasn’t convinced. “Charlie didn’t have the physical strength to overpower all those healthy young women.”

“No, but he didn’t need it. He was the handyman. When a babysitter let him in to do repairs, he’d pull a knife on her, or some other weapon, and she’d go with him without a struggle. Or he’d walk up to a sitter in the park and shove a weapon into her back. No one even noticed him. He was nonthreatening. Inconspicuous. An old man. What a perfect disguise.”

What had Charlie said? “Looking normal would be the best disguise of all.” Something like that. Had he been warning me against himself? The thought gave me goose bumps.

“Beverly agrees. She says that, as a paranoid schizophrenic, Charlie could fit the profile despite his age.” Nick seemed sure.

“So. You’re not looking for anyone else?”

“The case is closed, Zoe. Relax. It’s done.” He resumed cooking. Bits of garlic cloves, cherry peppers, and anchovies lined his butcher block. The windows had darkened; ice crusted their corners. We’d emptied our bottle of wine, opened another. Aromas of spices and warm bread swelled around us. We were
almost getting comfortable being together, settling in, but I couldn’t let go. I simply could not believe that the killer was Charlie. Did Nick really believe it? Or was he lying again, hiding the truth, withholding privileged information? Stop it, I told myself. Nick hadn’t necessarily lied. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Charlie had been a serial killer. But doubts still nagged at me. “Charlie said the killer used his tools.”

Nick pushed chopped veggies into bowls. “Zoe. Forget what Charlie told you. He’d divided himself into two, remember? He talked about the killer as if it was someone else.”

“But why nannies? If, as Beverly said, the women represented me, why did he kill younger women? And why nannies? Why not mothers?”

I thought of answers as soon as I asked the questions. To Charlie, I was a young woman. And I wasn’t a typical mother; I’d adopted Molly. Didn’t that make me sort of a permanent nanny? One of the victims had been an adoptive mother like me. If I’d been the person he modeled victims after—no, that idea was absurd. Wasn’t it?

Still, I expected Nick to give me a glib answer. Some easy explanation that would banish my doubts. But Nick didn’t say a word. Instead, he lapsed into silence. He stood rapt, back rigid, legs apart, arms folded across his chest. Why? What was he thinking about? Charlie? Whether to reveal another secret? How long to simmer his sauce?

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

About what? He didn’t say. He stood silently, staring out the window at darkness.

“Smell my hair, Mommy.” Molly joined us, wrapped in an oversized towel.

I did. It smelled clean and sweet, like vanilla. We went to the
guest room to put on her pajamas, stopping every three seconds so she could wiggle her tooth.

“Do you think it’ll come out tonight?”

“Maybe. Maybe a few more days.”

“Because the Tooth Fairy doesn’t know where we are.”

“I told you. Don’t worry. The Tooth Fairy knows. Finding kids is part of the job.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

“How can you even think that?” I dodged, avoiding the truth. Avoiding a lie.

“Mommy, come on. Tell me—”

I kissed her vanilla head. “Let’s go see Nick.”

“Mommy—” She stuck to my side, asking.

In the kitchen, Nick was finishing a phone call. Hanging up, he forced a smile. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Thtarved,” Molly answered while wiggling her tooth.

“Good. Spaghetti’s my specialty.”

I heard sizzling, smelled garlic frying. Nick’s shirt rippled over his back as he sprinkled diced peppers, anchovies, and tomatoes over broccoli, peppers, capers, olives, mushrooms, and eggplant chunks in the skillet. Occasional odd pieces toppled off the butcher block onto the floor. I took note of the deftness of Nick’s fingers, the decisiveness of his hands, the inability of onions to defend themselves. The force of his slices.