The Nanny Murders Page 5

  I edged around the chairs and went to the window, searching the small groups of children at each piece of equipment. I found Leslie’s wiry Billy, Karen’s stocky Nicholas, Gretchen’s petite Hannah, Ileana’s substantial Serena. Finally, I saw Molly. She waited in line at the trampoline. Yes, she was fine. Attentive. Having fun. They all were.

  But Tamara’s spirited face floated through the gym, laughing, singing, chasing after Billy. Showing him how to ride his bike. How to Rollerblade. How to make a peanut-butter bird feeder. Talking about growing up in Nebraska, the five younger siblings she’d had to watch. All the kids loved her, took to her naturally. Where was she? What had happened to her? What could make her abandon Billy? I had to believe she’d merely run off somewhere, that she was safe. Maybe she’d been threatened. Stalked. Or blackmailed. No, that made no sense, She wasn’t rich enough to be blackmailed. Probably it was something else— maybe a romance.

  Of course. That had to be it. Odd behavior in women was usually caused by men. Tamara must have gotten involved with some guy and run off with him. She was all right, just too embarrassed now, after all the publicity, to call or come back. Or maybe he wouldn’t let her come back. Maybe the guy was abusive. Or maybe it was something entirely harmless. Like, maybe she knew the other missing girls and they’d all gone off somewhere together. It wasn’t beyond possibility. Nannies tended to socialize with each other, and no evidence had been found indicating that anything serious had happened to any of them. Except the finger.

  I caught my breath. Stop it, I told myself. Probably Tamara’s absence had nothing to do with the finger. Hundreds of young women wore red nail polish. Tamara wasn’t the only one.

  No, Claudia probably wore it, too.

  Charlie’s voice echoed, “Evil is all around ...You and your child are in danger.” Molly jumped and spun around, bounced from her knees to her feet, her feet to her seat. Six other children ringed the trampoline, waiting their turns. When Molly’s turn was finished, she turned to the window, saw me watching, and waved. I gave her a thumbs-up and smiled. But my chest was so tight, I almost couldn’t inhale.

  I did inhale, though. I exhaled, too. Then I repeated the process. After a few more rounds, I looked back at the women in their huddle. I would rejoin them, but for a while I lingered, gazing out the window at the children, trying to insulate myself from the quiet hysteria in the room. In the gym, the world seemed normal. Children laughed; holiday music played; tinsel decorated the posts set at intervals into the floor.

  But this side of the window reverberated with the shock of the headlines.

  Davinder came and stood beside me. “Coach Gene looks all right, doesn’t he?” She stared at him. Eyed him up and down.

  I was confused. Gene was hardly Davinder’s type, at least four inches shorter and twice as wide. And Davinder had a doctorate, while Gene had maybe finished high school. Not to mention that she was married. “Really?” I tried to sound nonjudgmental. “You think?”

  “Yeah. I expected he’d be devastated, the way he felt about Tamara. He asked her out only about forty times.”

  “No, that wasn’t Tamara,” Ileana interjected, overhearing. “Gene liked the other one—Claudia Rusk. You know, she worked for Susan’s friend.”

  “No, uh-uh, it’s Tamara. Gene’s been hounding her to go out with him for months, but she keeps shooting him down. Poor guy.”

  “That’s Claudia. Ask Susan. Coach Gene kept asking Claudia out until finally she gave in. But she dumped him after one date. It’s Claudia, not Tamara.”

  Davinder and Ileana continued to bicker. It was Claudia; no, Tamara. No, Claudia.

  “You know,” Leslie interrupted, “maybe he liked them both. Tamara told me Gene kept bugging her. But he still might have had a thing for Claudia. You’re both probably right.”

  I watched Coach Gene through the window as he guided the children, one by one, over the horse. A compact little man, built of solid muscle, Gene radiated grins and tireless enthusiasm. He offered each child individual encouragement, motivating even the clumsiest to run, leap, bounce, swing, and flip. As a coach, he seemed ideal. But how would he seem as a romantic partner, as a man? Now that I thought about it, his perpetual smile was unnatural. Even creepy. What lay behind it? His eyes were flat, giving no information. Maybe there was more to Coach Gene than anyone imagined. Apparently, he’d been involved with two of the missing women. Was that mere coincidence? Could this squat, cheerful man know something about the disappearances? As I watched, Coach Gene’s smile distorted into sinister sneer, a clown’s face, a mask.

  Stop it, I told myself. You’re being ridiculous. Gene was a healthy young man; it was only natural for him to be attracted to striking young women like Tamara and Claudia. Still, if Gene was fond of either or both, his peppy demeanor was unsettling. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that the women were missing.

  Stumpy little Serena performed a cartwheel; Coach Gene beamed and gave her a high five. He must be hiding his feelings for the sake of the children. The children were Gene’s priority; he’d never let his personal problems touch them. Satisfied with that explanation, I left the window and rejoined the group, taking a seat beside Leslie.

  “It’s been a hell of a day,” Karen sighed. Darkness ringed her eyes. “We’re all upset. But even so, we’ve got to think of the kids. They love Tamara, and they’re going to wonder where she is. And they’re going to sense that we’re upset, so they’ll know something’s happened and worry.”

  “So what are you saying?” Gretchen asked. “That we should tell them what happened?”

  “No. I don’t think we should—”

  “So we should pretend nothing’s happened?”

  “I didn’t say that, either, Gretchen. All I’m saying is that we should do what’s best for the kids and keep—”

  “Leslie!” Susan burst in shouting, dragging Emily by the wrist. “I saw the paper this morning and called, but you didn’t pick up—and then I had to be in court—my God, are you okay?”

  Leslie gaped, not replying.

  “Listen, I talked to the precinct. It’s definitely the same MO as the others. Same guy who took Claudia and the others.” Emily was whining for Susan to let her go, but Susan seemed to have forgotten all about the wrist in her fist. “I tried to find out what the cops know, but nobody’s saying anything yet. Too soon.” Emily finally broke away, shed her coat, and took off for the gym. “I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything at all,” Susan went on. “Meantime, what are we going to do?”

  “What?” Leslie blinked at her, confused. “Do?” Davinder asked.

  “There isn’t much we can do, is there? It’s up to the cops.” Ileana sat up straight.

  “You’re kidding, right? We’re not going to just sit around waiting for our babysitters to disappear one by one—that’s crazy.”

  Leslie let out an audible sob. I took her hand; Karen hugged her.

  “Susan,” I whispered. “Everyone’s kind of upset here. Give it a break.”

  I knew she wouldn’t. She gaped at me, then the others. Susan didn’t understand breaks or inaction of any kind. To Susan, passivity was poison.

  “Well, as I was saying,” Karen said, “what I think we should do is stick to routine. Familiar structure might feel good right now.”

  “Routine and structure,” Leslie echoed. “Keeping our lives going. That won’t be easy.”

  “No, but it might be the best thing. For the kids and for us.”

  Davinder spoke. “I agree. Even if we feel miserable, we should keep the kids’ lives normal.”

  Susan was speechless, almost sputtering. I lowered my head, awaiting the inevitable explosion, counting down. Three, two...

  “Shit—I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Boom. Susan was shouting. “This isn’t about us or our kids—it’s about our sitters. Our nannies. These are young, vital women whom all of us rely on. Who’s home right now with your newborn, Gretchen? And while you play tennis every morn
ing, who takes care of the kids? Karen, when you’re on duty, who’s with Nicholas? Ileana—who watches your kids when you show houses? Davinder, you have a job now, too, right?”

  “Only part-time—”

  “Fine. Who watches your Hari ‘part-time’? Do you expect your sitters to risk their lives just so you can keep your kids’ routines normal and undisturbed?”

  “Susan—” I started, knowing she was spouting without thinking, and probably just getting started. “I don’t think that’s what anyone meant—”

  “I, for one, am giving Bonita a gun. I want her to keep it on her person at all times. I’m getting her a license and paying for her to take shooting lessons.”

  Karen’s eyes widened. Leslie seemed to sway in her seat. Someone moaned a soft “Oy.”

  “Susan, is that smart? A loaded gun? Around the kids?” I asked.

  “You bet, a loaded gun around the kids,” she said. “Guess what—I want them to learn to shoot, too. Nobody at my house is going to wait around to be a goddamned victim. Someone messes with us, they’re dead.”

  The other women exchanged meaningful glances, silently agreeing that Susan had lost it. But she’d gotten them out of their funk. Now they were debating issues of self-defense, the benefits of Mace versus stun guns, karate versus tai chi. I stood and went to the window, needing another break.

  Molly stood beside the pit, by the uneven parallel bars. She stepped up and, with Coach Gene’s help, lifted herself to the lower bar. My heart stopped. I watched her little body swing, gather momentum, and somehow fly itself up to the high bar, defying gravity. Molly fearlessly held her position, her back arched and toes pointed, then leaned forward and spun back down to the lower bar. She flipped and flew back and forth between the bars, until finally she swung into her dismount, a cannonball from the high bar into the pit. When my heart began to beat again, I stifled the urge to burst into applause.

  It was true; familiar activities, routine, and structure were therapeutic. They soothed us, kept us in the here and now. There we were, the gymnastics moms, the same as every week. Even with the disappearance of Tamara, we were following our routine, sticking together. A bunch of women, a mini-community bound by little besides the age of our children and hectic schedules that, by chance, had led us to sign our kids up for the same class. But now, aroused by Susan’s spirit, we were organizing ourselves to take action—any action—against the paralysis of grief and fear.

  “We’ll need a buddy system,” Gretchen suggested. “Nannies go nowhere if they don’t go in pairs.”

  “And cell phones—programmed with emergency numbers.”

  “And we should hire that self-defense teacher, that guy who teaches women to poke out attackers’ eyes—”

  “Yeah, and knee ‘em in the balls—”

  “Mom?” Molly’s head poked through the doorway. She looked puzzled.

  The conversation stopped dead. “Hi, honey.”

  She was glowing from exertion, damp with sweat. “Mom, did you see me? Were you watching?”

  I crossed the room to hug her, wondering what she’d heard, and my chin quivered unexpectedly. “Yes, I did, Molly—I watched. I saw you, and you were amazing.”

  She beamed proudly, escaping the hug to run to the water fountain. The other children swarmed in, finding their mothers, pulling on their coats. Plans for moms organizing against crime were, at least for the time being, abruptly suspended.

  EIGHT

  AT FIFTH STREET DELI, EMILY AND MOLLY IMMEDIATELY GOT busy with the puzzles and games on the kids’ place mats. Susan and I sat looking nowhere, saying nothing. I told myself to relax; still, a sooty finger beckoned from behind the salt shaker, Tamara’s eyes peered over the cold-cuts counter, and old Charlie’s cryptic warnings echoed under the buzz of conversation. Stop it, I ordered myself. Focus on the here and now. The familiar and routine. But even as I scolded myself, I fantasized about running out of the place, just grabbing Molly’s hand and fleeing with Susan and the girls down the street back to our house where we could bolt the door and be safe. I even planned our escape route. I’d grab my purse and pull Molly out of the booth, lead Susan past the chair in the aisle, dodge that guy in the herringbone coat, veer past the cash register, and then—

  What was happening to me? Couldn’t I just sit quietly and have a meal with my friend? Couldn’t I take even a brief break from the craziness around me? I should be able to; I was a therapist, a mental health professional, trained to deal with emotional problems.

  But the fact was that I wasn’t dealing. I was tense, tired, and stressed. And Susan looked like I felt. Maybe even worse. She sat across the table, at once wired and haggard.

  “Mom, can you find any forks in this picture?” Molly pointed to a puzzle on her place mat. Arthur the Squirrel couldn’t eat his dinner without dishes and utensils, and they were all hidden in the drawing.

  “I found it,” Emily bragged. She pointed to a tiny fork hidden in a tree branch. Molly leaned across the table to see, and the girls chattered, weaving a nonstop conversation.

  Susan and I, though, were quiet. Susan’s mood pendulum seemed to have swung. After her impassioned rabble-rousing at gymnastics, she’d suddenly deflated. Her black hair hung limp, framing bloodshot eyes. Her skin had a grayish tone.

  “Susan,” I asked, “you okay?”

  She sighed. “As okay as any of us.”

  “You look awful.”

  “Thanks. I love you, too.”

  “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “So who asked you to love me?” Her shoulders caved, and she let go of her menu. “You’re right, though. I’ve been a mess since Claudia. And now—Tamara? I adore those girls, Zoe.” Her eyes filled. “It’s just too much. I haven’t slept—I stay up thinking all night. About who took them. If they suffered. You know.”

  I knew. We sat, silent and hurting.

  “I didn’t know that Coach Gene asked Tamara out,” I finally said.

  “Oh, please, Zoe. He asks them all out. Coach Gene likes anything that wiggles.”

  “Coach Gene likes what, Mom?” Molly’s ears had perked up.

  “He likes wiggles,” Emily explained. “You know.” She began, of course, to wiggle. Molly joined her, erupting into squirming giggles.

  “Girls,” I rubbed my temples. “You’re shaking the booth.” “Emily,” Susan barked. “Sit still.”

  The girls quieted, stifling laughter, and Susan and I settled back into our glumness.

  “Last time I saw Tamara, she talked about you,” Susan said.

  “About me?”

  “She said she admired you. Called you a survivor.” Now I was the one blinking away tears. “A lot of single people adopt—”

  “Why do you assume it’s about that? We were talking about strong women. She used you as an example of an old soul, strong because of—I don’t know—something about knowing how to flow with life instead of fighting it. Anyhow, she thought you must have lived many lives.”

  What was she talking about? “Tamara’s always been a flake.”

  “She said I should learn from you. That I waste energy by fighting battles that can’t be won.”

  Then again, maybe not such a flake.

  “Mom—I can’t find the cup.” Molly shoved the place mat in front of me.

  “I’ll show you,” Emily offered. “Here’s a hint. Look near his tail.”

  Molly continued to search. “How come you can find everything?”

  “Cuz I’m older than you.” “When’s your birthday?”

  Their conversation went on, traveling its separate path, occasionally crossing ours. Molly opened her mouth to display her loose baby tooth, Emily to introduce two emerging permanent ones.

  “By the way, I asked Ed about your detective.” Ed was a cop, one of Susan’s pals in Homicide.

  My detective? “Stiles?” I saw him at my door, his eyes sizing me up. I still hadn’t found out why he’d called. He hadn’t called back. May
be he hadn’t gotten my message. I should try to call again.

  “He’s new in town. A hotshot from Baltimore. Has degrees in criminology and psychology and every other ology Ed could think of, and he’s heading the nanny investigation, which has all the guys who are senior to him, which is basically everybody, pretty pissed off. Apparently, he does things his own way or no way, isn’t exactly a cop’s cop. But he’s supposed to be smart.”

  “So what did Ed say about the finger?”

  Susan’s voice was flat. Listless. “They haven’t matched the print yet, but Ed said it’s gotta be one of the nannies’. I didn’t say this to the others, but the cops figure those girls are dead.”

  Tamara blinked from behind the sugar bowl. I looked away, at Emily and Molly. They were engrossed in their games, holding their parallel conversation, cheerful. Oblivious.

  “No wonder you haven’t slept.”

  “It’s not only the nannies. I’m stressed out. I scream at the girls. Lisa asks me to help with her homework and I scream. Julie wants a ride somewhere and I scream. I haven’t even started my Christmas shopping. The plumbing leaks upstairs so we’ve got to redo the master bath and the ceiling under it, and we need a new roof. I’ve got those three felony cases, more coming up. My caseload’s staggering. Tim’s out of town again, has to be in L.A. off and on, commuting back and forth, probably through March. Bonita won’t be back until next week, and the sitter who’s filling in has to leave early every day but Thursday, the one day a week I don’t need her to stay. I want to scream.”

  I sat with my hands clasped, holding on. As long as I’d known her, Susan had been on overload, managing the many and complicated levels of her life tirelessly, with grace and aplomb. She could be passionate and scathingly articulate, but never frazzled. She could multitask, multitalk, and multithink. She’d been my support during my divorce, the adoption, the millions of times I’d needed a shoulder or a friend. To me, she defined stability, capability, dependability. She was my rock.