The nanny murders (17 page)

She jabbed her foot into empty space, buckling an imaginary leg, an unfamiliar viciousness in her eyes. Who was this child? “I think this is the red Angela has.”

She came running over to look.

Outside, Angela tossed her head and sashayed back to our house. Jake stood watching her, head tilted, bemused. If she’d wanted him to leave her alone, she might not have made her point.

TWENTY-FIVE

A
S ARRANGED WITH
N
ICK, WHEN
I
GOT TO THE INSTITUTE,
I set out to find Dr. Beverly Gardener’s office to pick up the profile. Her office was listed in the lobby as Room 37, in the basement, where most staff psychiatrists had their offices. My work almost never took me down there; in fact, I’d been in the basement only twice and hadn’t enjoyed either visit. The air there was tomblike and musty, the halls intricate and poorly lit. A catacomb.

But I was supposed to meet her there at nine to pick up a copy of her report. So, bracing myself, I walked past Agnes to the elevator at the end of the corridor and pushed the down button. Tired metal rattled and creaked, and slowly the dial indicated that the car was groaning its way to the first floor.

Finally, the elevator doors slid open. I was uneasy about the meeting. Dr. Gardener might think I wasn’t qualified to work with her—after all, I wasn’t headline material. But I didn’t have to justify my role was here at the request of the police. Nick had said he’d discussed my involvement with her.

The doors opened, and I entered the dimly lit labyrinth of marble floors and drafty corridors. A maze of gray walls lined with frosted glass doors. What was behind all those doors? Private offices? Patients’ rooms? Closets? Passing an open one, I peeked in. A huge expanse of white tiles surrounded a four-legged bathtub in the center of the floor. Nothing else was in
there. Not a sink. Not a cabinet. Not a towel rack. Creepy. I kept walking.

I saw nobody, heard only my own footsteps echoing along the walls. I followed the numbers. 77, 75. At 59, I encountered a pungent smell. Pipe tobacco? At 53, shrill laughter rolled under the door. When I got to 47, a door slammed behind me; I looked around. No one was there. The click of high-heeled shoes echoed from an intersecting corridor. Somewhere a door opened and closed. Then silence. Just the padding of my own shoes. I looked behind me. The hallway extended emptily back to the elevator. I walked on. Now the door said 92. Damn. I was lost. I turned back and retraced my steps. At 84, harsh laughing erupted, then abruptly ended, emphasizing the silence that followed. At 43, the hallway veered left. 42. 41. I was back on track.

From somewhere came a dull, rhythmic thumping. Maybe from an alcove up ahead, a waiting area. Was it footsteps? Yes, maybe someone pacing. Maybe in the alcove. I slowed, listening, watching. A lone shadow emerged from the alcove and slid along the hallway floor. Back and forth. Then it stopped, lay still, a dark stripe among shadows. Had it heard my footsteps? Why was it so still? Who was there?

A clammy draft tickled my neck; I wheeled around, saw no one. The hallway was deserted, except for me and the shadow in the alcove. No stalkers. No ghosts. No reason to be nervous. Besides, Dr. Gardener’s office was just a few doors ahead, within easy reach. I pictured myself breathlessly bursting through her door, panicking. No. I wasn’t going to do that. The shadow began to pace again.

Okay, I told myself. Enough. The hall is dim and creepy, and every sound makes eerie echoes, but that doesn’t mean that there’s a serial killer in the alcove. Just keep walking and mind your own business. I made myself continue, step by step. I was
fine. Even so, the hairs on my neck stiffened as I approached the waiting area. Passing the opening, I braced myself, ready to bolt.

I didn’t bolt, though. I did a double take, not registering the face at first. I recognized it but needed a minute to place it; the face didn’t belong at the Institute. Gradually, though, I recognized the spectacles, the pale face, the cashmere coat. The man in the alcove was my neighbor Phillip Woods.

Phillip Woods? I was so relieved, I almost hugged him and laughed out loud. But we were in a psychiatric hospital. I wasn’t sure he’d want to be recognized, let alone to be embraced with laughter by his neighbor. What was he doing here? Was he a patient? Or visiting one? He gaped at me, wide-eyed, apparently as nervous as I’d been. I nodded and kept walking, trying to be discreet, trying to absorb the oddity of finding Phillip Woods pacing the bowels of the Institute’s basement.

Finally, number 37 was just across the hall. The door featured large block letters announcing the doctor’s name. I knocked but got no answer. Knocked again. Finally, I tried the doorknob. The door was locked, the office dark. What was going on? Beverly Gardener knew I was coming; Nick had set up our appointment. I didn’t notice the envelope until I stepped back to leave. It was taped inconspicuously to the wood below the knob, and my name was on it.

“Zoe,” I read. We’d never formally met, but she used my first name. Establishing her dominance? “Urgent police consult called me away. Call to reschedule.” It was signed “BG.” Not “Beverly.”

Damp breath tickled my ear. “Are you—I beg your pardon, Ms. Hayes.” I wheeled around and found myself nose to nose with Phillip Woods. I hadn’t heard him approach. “Is that note perhaps—so sorry to intrude—but is that possibly a message from Dr. Gardener?”

I tried to back away but bumped into the door.

“Oh, excuse me,” he exclaimed without moving away. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I mean to say, I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Beverly—oh my. Small world, isn’t it?” He stopped to clear his throat, as if realizing the awkwardness of our situation. His eyes shifted, flitting to the wall, back to me. “Well. I didn’t expect to see you. Certainly not here. Where’s your little girl?”

I swallowed. “She’s home. I work here, Mr. Woods. I’m an art therapist.”

“Oh? Oh my. How fascinating. Yes. Well, then. You and Beverly must be colleagues.” Mr. Woods peered at me through thick lenses, blinking rapidly. I tried to smile, but my mouth twisted, must have resembled a grimace. “So, your little daughter’s at home. I don’t have children myself, of course. Not yet. Although I may finally have found the right woman.” He giggled briefly. “Well, maybe. Time will tell. But you seem a devoted mother. Lucky for your child. I was sent away to school when I was just a boy. To Europe. Switzerland, actually. You see, Mother traveled with Father. Diplomatic service. But it wasn’t all bad. I met Charles, Andrew. Stephanie. All sorts of royals.”

“Interesting,” I said. “How many of you were there?”

“How many?”

“Children.”

“Oh, well. Just myself. Just the one.” He cleared his throat, eyes darting away. Changing topics. “I’m puzzled about Beverly— Dr. Gardener. I don’t understand where she can be. She should have known I was coming by. I called the station first, of course. But they, well, they put me on hold. Can you imagine?”

“You called her radio show?” I’d often wondered what kind of people called in and aired their problems for others’ entertainment. How could they seek serious help in three minutes between commercial breaks? But here was cashmere-coasted Phillip Woods, admitting that he’d made a call.

“Yes, I called. I told them I was a close friend of Beverly’s, but they still didn’t put me through.”

“Dr. Gardener’s your friend?” Prominent Beverly Gardener and mousy Phillip Woods? It was hard to imagine them in a room together, much less in a personal relationship.

“Oh yes. Of course. We’re very close. Believe me, heads will roll when she finds out they put me on hold. I waited a half hour, and then they disconnected me—can you believe it? I called again, and the line was busy. So I called here and found out she was expected, and I left the message that I’d be dropping by. I should have done that to begin with. But I thought I’d give her a kick, you know, a dear friend popping up on the air.”

“I see.” His story seemed far-fetched. Probably he was making it up, creating a cover story, embarrassed to be found seeing a shrink. I began to move away, but he stepped into my path.

“The receptionist confirmed that Beverly was expected in her office today. I can’t imagine where she is.” Had Agnes sent him down here? She should have known better.

“Well, Dr. Gardener’s a busy woman; you’d probably be wise to make an appointment.”

“An appointment? Me? Oh, I don’t think so. She’ll make the time.”

“Like I said, she’s very busy.” I looked him in the eye.

“Besides, she owes me half an hour. After all, I waited on hold all that time.” He chuckled, as if at a joke. If there was one, I didn’t get it.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know when she’ll be in.” I took a sideways step and began to walk away.

He nodded, staring at the floor. “Yes, all right.”

“But I doubt it’ll be soon.” I walked a few steps and turned back.

He stood still, bereft. A lost man in need of help.

“Maybe Agnes, the receptionist in the lobby, can phone her beeper for you.”

“No, no. I don’t want to alarm her. It’s no real emergency.”

His gaze remained on the floor. His eye kept twitching and he bit his lip. I was afraid he was going to cry. I hoped he wouldn’t; I didn’t know how to react if he did. But his eyes remained dry, darting to the ceiling and back down again. “Very well, then. She’s not coming,” he sighed. “Well. Another time, then. Thank you, Ms. Hayes. Very sorry to have bothered you.”

He turned back to the waiting area and resumed his troubled pacing. I saw a small suitcase on the sofa. Was he just here to see Dr. Gardener, or had he been planning to check in?

“But if you want,” I offered, “someone else on staff could probably see you now. Dr. Gardener’s not the only—”

“Why would I want to see someone else? I thought I made myself clear, Ms. Hayes. I’m here as Dr. Gardener’s friend. We have a close, rather personal relationship.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Maybe I’ll wait just a bit longer.” He shifted from foot to foot, glancing up and down the hallway, and resumed his pacing. I left him there and quickly retraced my steps to the elevator. I’d ask Beverly Gardener about him. Maybe they were friends. But, if they were, why didn’t he just call her cell phone or her home if he wanted to talk? What was the big deal about surprising her? Oh, well. Not my business. What an odd little man. And what a street I lived on. Charlie, the delusional paranoid. Victor, the phobic recluse. And Phillip Woods apparently had a few personal quirks himself. Then, of course, there was me . . .

The note was still in my hand. Dr. Gardener was off assisting the police. Assisting Nick. Was she with him now? I pictured them together. Intense, energetic Beverly Gardener and rugged, big-bicepped Nick Stiles. Maybe she was helping him sort body
parts. Maybe he was studying her profile. Maybe I should stop thinking about what they were doing. Whatever it was, why did I care? Dammit, why had I gone to bed with him? And why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? I had patients to see, a group session to run. A killer to watch out for. I didn’t need to spend time wandering a chilly basement, feeling jealous and suspicious, imagining the romantic escapades of a woman I didn’t know and a man I didn’t trust.

I hurried into the elevator, pushed the button, and didn’t look up again until the doors opened, delivering me from the bowels of the Institute to the gray light of the lobby.

TWENTY-SIX

T
HAT DAY AND THE NEXT,
I
CALLED BEVERLY GARDENER’SOF-
fice several times, only to get Agnes. I left messages about rescheduling but got no reply. I thought of calling Nick about it but didn’t want to, except as a last resort. Besides, I was busy. I had a new patient, Celia Dukell. Celia was fifteen years old and had been carving herself with razor blades off and on for three years. Our first sessions went well enough, but I suspected she was saying and doing what she thought she was supposed to say and do. Her family portrait showed her as a bland and hollow figure amid relatives of substance and color. A polite, controlled, only slightly revealing sketch.

My other cases were demanding, as well. Amanda, almost completely bald now, drew her family without including any image of herself. Hank wouldn’t paint at all until the bristles on his brush were perfectly aligned, which was never. sydney, having adapted to his medications, began a still life of a vase, but the vase in his sketch, unlike the model, was severely chipped and cracked.

Evie Kraus finally painted something other than her literal surroundings. she did a self-portrait, examining her features closely in a mirror while she worked. I looked over her shoulder to see what she’d drawn; like the tattoos covering her arms, it was a coiled, thick snake, devouring a cat.

I finally heard from Dr. Gardener on Wednesday morning. I’d
begun to think that I’d never see the profile, that Nick might have reconsidered having my input on the case. Then, Wednesday morning, I smelled flowers, heard the quick clack of heels against tile, and looked up to see Dr. Beverly Gardener herself bursting like floodwaters into the arts and crafts room.

“You must be Zoe.” Her eyes focused on me, drenching me with their intensity. she wore a cranberry tweed suit with a knee-length skirt that showed off her incredible calves, and she examined me from head to toe and back to head again, as if measuring me for curtains. “I’m Beverly Gardener. Nick stiles’s friend.”

His friend? Not colleague? Not consultant? His friend. Okay. I got it. Her makeup was simple, accenting her green eyes, and her dark hair was done up in a neat chignon. I stood to greet her. In her low heels, she was taller than I in my flats; I had to look up at her when we spoke.

“Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake; she cupped it in hers like a wounded bird, watching me. studying my. reaction?

“Nick said to pass this along to you.” she handed me a large white envelope, her eyes not leaving mine. “Thank you.”

“You live right in the middle of it, then? You found the finger?” “Yes.”

“How awful for you, dumpling.”