The nanny murders (15 page)

“Molly, this is Nick Stiles. Nick, this is Molly.”

“Mommy, ‘sthis your boyfriend?” Her whisper was loud.

“Nick’s my friend,” I answered, my face warming.
Molly had never tasted artichokes, but she seemed to want to impress Nick and gobbled down two slices. After dinner, we played board games. Chutes and Ladders, then Perfection. Molly, an expert, beat us at both. Then, as I was hoping to take her up to bed, she and Nick began a jungle jigsaw puzzle, spilling pieces all over the floor.

“Start with the corners,” she advised. “It’s easier that way.”

“Like this?” Nick held up a piece.

“Yes. Very good. Now, find all the pieces with a flat side and connect them. Those are the sides.” “Help us, Zoe,” Nick invited me.

“Mom hates puzzles,” Molly explained. “Don’t bother asking her. It’s hopeless.”

Chatting and laughing, sifting through the pile, they isolated all four corners and separated pieces with flat sides. I sat beside them on the floor, sipping cocoa, watching them play, wondering if we looked like a family. If this easy comfort was how it felt to be part of one. We floated through the evening, and when I finally managed to get Molly to bed and tucked her in, Nick was waiting in the hall. At last I’d be able talk to him privately. I’d ask about the body parts, about Susan and the finger. But as I started to speak, he took my hand and gently put it against his lips. His eyes, when I looked up, seemed to see through mine, into my head. His arms wrapped around me, and I leaned against him, feeling safe and protected, letting my questions float away

That night the moon was full, casting its rays, spreading its dust. As wolves howled, tides shifted, and lunatics raved, I, too, must have been swayed by moonbeams; I have no other explanation or excuse. Before I knew it, Nick’s lips were on mine, melting my mouth. That night, Nick’s face was what I saw last in the moonlight. And it was what I saw first when I awoke, a little after dawn.

TWENTY-ONE

T
HE BED WAS RUMPLED FROM THE NIGHT
.
SO WAS MY MIND
.
Images and memories lingered, heavy like smoke. Maybe it had been the wine or the full moon, maybe my weakness after several long years of sleeping alone, but somehow I’d stopped thinking and allowed myself simply to let go.

Michael’s pillow was smashed; it wasn’t Michael’s anymore. Nick had claimed it along with Michael’s place in my bed and in my body. I’d kissed a chest less hairy than Michael’s, tangled with longer legs, sucked on fuller lips for the first time in over a decade. And now, after just one evening, Michael seemed vague, limited, and long ago. In the most primitive way, I belonged to a new man. An invader who’d conquered me, inch by inch. I’d been alone for so long that I’d forgotten about the details of sex, the anticipation of each progressive step, the artichoke process, the peeling away of clothes, boundaries, inhibitions. And all the firsts. First ear nibble, first breast squeeze, first grinding of hips. Had I ever been that excited with Michael? Had I ever let go entirely, trusted him completely, cried out without caring that he’d hear? I didn’t think so. Sex with Michael had been comfortable, cozy, predictable. With Nick, it felt reckless, dangerous. Unleashed. I’d had no precautions, nothing in the medicine cabinet to ward off pregnancy or disease. But Nick had taken care of everything, to the tiniest detail.
Now, the morning after, I heard him downstairs, moving dishes and pots around the kitchen. His presence was everywhere, permeating everything. My possessions were no longer quite my own. The dresser, the bathtub, the bed had been touched, altered. They’d all acquired a new master; they sang out Nick’s name. The kitchen, at that moment, was under his command.

And what about Molly? Oh my God. What had she thought when she’d seen him making breakfast? I hadn’t thought this through at all. Hadn’t considered her feelings. How selfish and impulsive I’d been. How insensitive. What kind of mother was I?

Quickly, I splashed water onto my face at the mirror where he’d shaved. Folding the towel he’d used for his shower, I was guilt-ridden and wary. I smelled coffee and breakfast and braced myself to reclaim territory. I came downstairs as he was showing Molly how to flip pancakes as if they made breakfast together every day.

I waited, observing, struggling with what I saw. Ever since the social worker had handed her to me and I’d carried her home, Molly had been mine. We’d been a family unto ourselves, our own universe. Now, Nick had cut in on the waltz that I’d danced alone so long with Molly. Tapping my shoulder, he was taking her for a whirl across the floor. And while I admired their easy grace, I mourned the private pace of mother and daughter.

“This one looks ready—see the bubble holes?”

“Should I flip it?”

“Yup.”

“Oops—”

Even so, I wasn’t eager to return to that isolation. Nick seemed to belong with us, as if he were right at home. So why wasn’t I entirely happy about it? I told myself that my ambivalence was normal. Nick was sudden and new. I shouldn’t have let Molly meet him yet. Should never have let him spend the night. It was
a delicate matter, introducing a lover to a child. I should have taken time to prepare her, or at least to prepare myself.

I watched them, Molly in pajamas and Nick, barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt. A man beside a child who was standing on a chair to reach the stove in a cluttered kitchen. A photograph. A greeting card. I came in slowly, cautiously. Molly turned suddenly and grinned.

“Mommy, look, we’re cooking.”

“Hi, guys.” I kissed one head, then another. Nick smelled like soap.

“Morning. We’ve been busy. Molly did about a quarter of the puzzle and I climbed the Himalayas.” “You what?” “On your StairMaster.”

He’d used my StairMaster? The StairMaster had been my gift to myself. It was private territory, my own personal nemesis. I hadn’t even broken it in yet. But I smiled, covering my feelings. I told myself it was no big deal; at least somebody had used the damned thing. Keeping my worries to myself, I ate pancakes and drank coffee. I smelled Nick’s aftershave and felt his easy touch on my hand. I almost relaxed. But when Molly scampered off to get dressed, I had my moment, and I took it. This was my turf, my home. I had to make the rules. Had to.

“Nick. About Molly—”

“She’s a great kid. Fun. You know what she said—”

“No. Wait. I have something to say.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds serious. What did I do?”

“Nothing. No, not nothing. But you didn’t do it. We both did. Look, what happened last night was, well, amazing. At least it was for me.”

“It was amazing for both of us—”

I avoided his eyes. “Good. That’s good. But it shouldn’t have involved Molly. It isn’t fair to her.”

He blinked rapidly a few times. Was something in his eye?

“Exactly what are you saying? That you don’t want her to know I was here all night? You don’t want her to know about us?”

“She’s a kid without a father, Nick. She craves a daddy. She used to ask me where her daddy was. Why he didn’t live with us. I explained about her adoption the best way I could, and she doesn’t ask anymore, but I know she longs for a man she can call Daddy.”

“You’re saying she wants me to be her dad?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to risk her getting attached to anyone until I’m sure he’s part of our lives—”

“So what’s the bottom line here? Are you saying she shouldn’t see you with a man until the wedding?”

“You know that’s not what I mean—”

“What
do
you mean?” His eyes were piercing. Cold.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he understand? “What I mean isn’t about you and me. It’s about Molly. That I need to protect her.”

He folded his arms. Protecting himself? Or belligerent? I thought of his dead wife. Had Nick wanted children with her?

“Okay. So you’re saying you don’t want me around Molly?”

“No. I don’t know. I just want you to understand. I want us to be careful of her.”

He nodded. Arms still folded. Distancing. “Okay. I understand. Anything else?”

Damn. I’d hurt his feelings. Half of me wanted to unfold his arms and climb inside them, but the other half made me go on.

“Actually, there is. As long as we’re talking.”

“Shoot.”

Shoot? His wife popped to mind again, holding a revolver.

“It’s not about Molly. It’s about the case. There’s a rumor going around that a body was found. A nanny body, in a trash bag.”

He didn’t flinch. He looked me right in the eye, didn’t even blink. “Where’d you hear that?

I didn’t implicate Susan. “Neighbors. People. Is it true?” “It’s bullshit. Who’s spreading crap like that?” “You haven’t heard anything about this?” “Not a word.”

Why was he lying? “But if it were true, would you tell me?”

Aha. He blinked. “Zoe, don’t believe everything you hear. People are on the verge of panic, and rumors are going to fly. Don’t pay attention. Leave the investigation to the police and the FBI.”

First a blink, then an evasion. Nick knew about the bag; Susan had heard him talking about it. He was lying, but I couldn’t tell him that I knew. Was I as bad as he was, testing him? Setting him up?

“Nick, if we’re going to have any kind of relationship, I have to be able to trust you. I have to know you’ll tell me the truth. Not twist it for your convenience or omit it altogether.”

He swallowed some coffee. “The truth? That’s a pretty complex topic, isn’t it? There are a lot of sides to the truth; it isn’t solid and fixed like concrete. It’s more like Jell-O—fluid, changing with the circumstance, the moment, the point of view. Most people can’t grasp that.”

“That’s a sociopath’s definition. Truth is truth, not something you can shape to suit your purpose.”

“Okay. Is this about the nanny case? Or about life in general?”

“How can you separate the two?”

“Okay, then. If that’s how you want it, here’s the truth: I’ll tell you everything you need to know about the nanny case. But the whole picture? That’s for the police. Leave it to us. You’re a civilian.”

“So if a woman’s body was found down the street, you wouldn’t tell me.”

Half his mouth curled. It looked almost sinister. “I wouldn’t divulge information that could endanger a case. Not to you or anyone else. Please. Give this up, will you?”

“Give it up? You just said you wouldn’t tell me—” “So?”

“So you lied to me about the body, Nick. Didn’t you? And, if you’d lie about that, what else will you lie about? What are the rules? What can I trust?”

“Oh, man.” Nick’s hand brushed his hair, and he sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Look. Let’s get clear on this right away. You’re a smart, talented, pretty lady. And I’m a cop. A cop. That’s where the line is drawn. Understand?”

No. I didn’t. But I understood that we were fighting. I was mad, and so was he.

“I decide what you or the press or the public or anyone else knows about this or any other investigation. I don’t need people spreading rumors and making things worse than they already are.”

“You decide what others are allowed to know? Is that just on police matters? Or on personal ones, too?”

He hesitated only a moment. “It’s how it is. Period. Hey—you can be pissed if you want. You can tell me to get lost. But I am who I am, and I deal with things my way. Fact is, Zoe, I like you. I’d like to spend time with you. But that’s not going to happen if you’re going to interfere in the way I work. Or the way I am.”

I was seething. “Fine.” The words came through clenched jaws. “Then I guess that’s that. Because I can’t be with a man who isn’t honest with me.”

He didn’t answer. For a moment, we sat deadlocked in silence. In a normal situation, he would have left then. I expected him to, wanted him to. But just then, Molly came back into the kitchen, eyeing us warily. Instantly, Nick and I slapped stiff smiles on our faces, masking our hostilities. I wondered, once again, if this was what it was like to be part of a family. Protecting children from being hurt by the affairs of the adults around them. Molly sat beside me and I put my arm around her.

“Still hungry, Mollybear?” I would ignore Nick. I would punish him by shutting him out.

She shrugged, looked from me to Nick. “Are you guys in a fight?” she whispered.

Nick answered in a calm voice. “No, your mom and I aren’t fighting. Not really. Even good friends have disagreements sometimes. We’re having one, and we’re talking about it so we can work it out.” His eyes watched me while he spoke, and I saw in them the almost painful tenderness of the night before.

Molly nodded. “Don’t worry,” she assured him. “Two people can’t always agree every time.” Where had she heard that? How had she arrived at that wisdom?

Nick smiled his half smile. “You’re a smart girl, Molly. Smarter than a lot of grown-ups.”

He reached across the table for my hand and held on to it, but I held mine in a firm fist, not relenting. Still, despite our unresolved issues, for a while longer, we remained calm and friendly for Molly’s sake. We’d had our first argument, and as far as I was concerned it would be our last. What an idiot I’d been. How had I so casually—and so suddenly—let this man into our lives? And gone to bed with him? So soon? And introduced him to Molly? What had I been thinking? I glanced across the table, avoiding Nick’s eyes, glimpsing his strong jawline, his shoulders, his meaty hands. My body reacted, even now. Obviously, I hadn’t been thinking; that was the problem.

Well, no real harm was done. Molly hadn’t invested emotionally yet, and although my feelings were bruised, I’d survive. I’d been stupid, but I’d learned some important facts: Even with his evasions, I knew that the bag with the body was real. And I knew that I was needier than I’d realized. That I had to be on guard and not fall so easily for a man like Nick Stiles.

That morning, sitting across from him, I marveled at how relaxed he seemed, how easily he played word games with Molly.

I couldn’t help thinking about the woman who’d shot him. Had he been dishonest with her, too? Had she agonized over his deceit? Had it been merely omissions or actual lies? I pictured her, unsteadily aiming her gun at Nick, and I imagined him diving, struggling for the gun, getting shot in the face, and, in a bloody rage, grabbing the weapon and shooting her dead. Stop it, I told myself. That was absurd. Just because he’d hidden some facts about the nanny case didn’t mean he’d lied about his wife’s death. He hadn’t killed her; she’d shot herself. Her death had been by her own hand. Hadn’t it? If I asked him about it, all these years later, he’d certainly tell me the truth. Wouldn’t he?