The nanny murders (2 page)

So my mind plowed through the detective’s visit, scanning for
highlights. I heard myself tell him that I was forty-one years old, had lived in the house for thirteen years. That, no, I wasn’t married; Michael and I had divorced about five years ago. That I lived alone with my daughter, Molly, who was five and a half. I could skip all that. And I could skip the expression on Stiles’s face as he did the math. And the part when I’d blurted out that I’d adopted Molly after Michael had gone.

“Well?” she looked up without breaking her pace. The events of my day didn’t slow her down. Susan mixed flour and shortening, pounded out the dough. She was, as usual, spinning in her kitchen, spilling this and that, slapping ingredients together, creating chaos that would transform, magically, into something delectable.

I reached for my coffee mug, and my arm brought to mind another arm. Stiles’s. His large hand had emerged from a dark woolen sleeve, his arm lifting gingerly, picking up the thing with a tweezer-like appliance and dropping it into a Baggie. Again I heard the small, plastic thud and saw Stiles’s brow wrinkle. Yes, this was it, the answer Susan wanted. The part where Stiles talked about the missing women.

“He asked about the nannies? What did he say?” She straightened and looked at me, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

“He asked if I knew them. What I’d heard about them.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I guess he thinks it might belong to one of them.” I squeezed the mug, inhaled steam, and concentrated on the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon, the energy pulsing around me.

Susan’s kitchen, unlike mine, was huge and alive. Mine was closet-sized, a detail off the entranceway, usually littered with takeout cartons and pizza boxes. I couldn’t stand the messy monotony of preparing meals and never made anything that took
more than fifteen minutes. For Molly, I fixed eggs, grilled cheese, an occasional lamb chop, a hundred variations of pasta. But Susan actually cooked. Thoughtlessly, effortlessly, as a way of life, a technique for stress reduction, a ritual of being. Even now, while we discussed dismemberment, she rolled out piecrust on her thick butcher-block island. I sat close, huddling under flour clouds.

From time to time, Susan’s children wandered in with Molly, circling, swiping sugared apple slices, and scooting into the next room to plop in front of the blaring large-screen TV. Spigots turned on and off. The refrigerator hummed.

I watched Susan stretch piecrust and splash flour, performing her dizzying domestic dance. I envied her ability to bake biscuits while dictating legal briefs, change diapers while phoning an opposing counsel, interview caterers and murderers within the same hour. Susan’s moods fluctuated, and she never completely focused on one thing or settled in one place, but meals made it to her table on time, and her hair always shone. Whenever an aspect of life overwhelmed me, I found myself drawn to her. Today, I needed her. I needed to feel her energy build, erupt, and settle onto dinner plates.

But at that moment, Susan seemed removed, even annoyed. I waited. She said nothing, threw more flour at the dough.

“Well,” I finally said. “Don’t you have anything else to say?”

“What’s to say, Zoe? What should I say?”

“What do you mean, what’s to say? I’ve just had a completely horrible, bizarre day.”

“Oh, Zoe,” she snapped. “For godsakes. Your day was not all that bizarre. From where I sit, finding a finger on your front porch is pretty standard stuff.”

“Right, Susan. It happens every day. Comes with the daily paper.”
She didn’t answer.

“How can you say that?” I kept at her. “Your idea of ‘standard stuff’ is pretty warped.”

She squinted, still silent, still rolling.

“Well, it is,” I persisted. “Not that it’s your fault. You spend every day with the scum of the earth, with crime and criminals. Your work’s affected your thinking.”

She shrugged. “On the other hand, maybe my work shows me how normal this is. I see stuff like this all the time. And worse.”

“Really? Well, if it’s so normal, how would you feel if it was your child?” My voice was rising. “What if Emily brought home some detached body part?”

She looked up at me and blinked condescendingly. “I’m not saying it’s normal. But it happens. It wouldn’t faze me.”

“It wouldn’t faze you? If Emily walked in holding somebody’s finger?”

“I don’t think it—”

“—or nose—”

“—would. No.”

“—or an ear? Or penis? How about a nipple? Would a nipple faze you?”

“Okay, I’d be upset. But I wouldn’t be fazed.”

I sipped some tea. “You’ve been in your job too long.”

“Maybe so.” She put down her rolling pin, set her jaw, and brushed her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of flour. We faced each other in charged silence, each wanting validation from the other, each unable or unwilling at the moment to validate.

My eyes burned, head ached. I stared at her folded hands, the emerald rings crusted with dough, the floured manicure.

“Look, Zoe.” She pushed flour-streaked hair behind her ear.

“You know I love you. But for all your brilliance and creativity, you can be really clueless.” “Meaning?”

“Meaning that you completely deny the parts of reality that you don’t like. For years—since your divorce, you’ve lived in your little bubble where everything is just as you want it to be. Gentle and fluffy and nurturing. And now, when reality shatters your illusion, you get upset. The truth is that people do cruel and horrible things. There are six homicides in Philadelphia every single week. Not to mention the rapes, robberies, and assaults. But that’s not new. What’s new is that you’ve noticed it. You’ve finally looked beyond your bubble and seen what’s been there all along. Welcome to the world.” She pressed dough into the tin, punctuating her words.

I closed my eyes. What could I say? I had no defense. There was a lot of truth in what she’d said. I did try to protect myself and my daughter from the ugly parts of life. Was that so wrong? Once again, I saw Detective Stiles pick up the finger and drop it into the Baggie. Thwap. I opened my eyes. Susan dumped the bowl of apples into the tin and slapped the rest of the dough on top.

“Sorry,” she barked. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that’s how I see it.”

I watched her cut off the extra crust and squeeze the excess into her fist. She moved abruptly, without tenderness. Susan was ferocious. Not her usual self.

“So,” I asked, “what’s wrong?”

“Who said anything was wrong?” she snapped. Then she relaxed, lowering her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Zoe. Everything’s wrong. Tim’s traveling again, so I’m the only parent again this month. Bonita’s got final exams, so she’s not sitting regular hours. I’m up to my ears in lunches and laundry and homework
and car pools and baths. And a huge caseload—three felony cases. That means three people will go to jail if I mess up.” She threw the pie into the oven and slammed the door. I felt a familiar rush of fondness for her.

She sighed, leaning against the stove. “You know, except for Tim, you’re the only one who ever does that.”

Uh-oh. What had I done? “Does what?”

“Pins me down. Makes me say what’s bothering me. Always knows when something’s bothering me.”

“Well, you’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“What? I’ve been completely calm and composed.” She yanked a dish towel off the rack.

“Right, Completely. A moment ago, if I’d said another word— another syllable—I’d have been wearing that pie.”

She grinned. “No, I never waste my pies. Maybe a bowl of flour, but not a pie.” She sighed and sat on a stool. “But you’re right. I’m on overload. I’m nuts. Completely bananas.” Her eyes wandered to the wall clock. “Speaking of nuts and bananas, it’s time for dinner. Staying?”

“As long as it’s not finger food,” I smiled. “Or hand and cheese.”

Susan winced. “No. Today’s special is knuckle sandwiches.” She handed me a cutting board. “Here, give me a hand.”

“Hey, I’m the guest. Guests don’t have to lift a finger.”

“Yes they do, just not the middle one.”

“Oh, cut it out.”

“Just chop the damn carrots. Watch your aim.” “Quartered or sliced?”

“And skinned.” She threw a tomato at me. “Heads up.” Lettuce flew into my arms. Something green—a cucumber?—whizzed past me onto the counter. Scallions and then a green pepper bounced off my shoulder. I dodged, laughing, and caught the endive midair.

“Shut up and cut up.” She dropped a knife onto the cutting
board, raised her index fingers, and, waving them, shimmied to the stove. Manic again.

So I chopped. Being busy felt good. The carrots were not body parts. Susan and I were making salad and frying flounder, easing back into the steady rhythm of our friendship.

Susan poured us each a glass of wine. We sipped and talked. I felt the tension ease out of me. My shoulders felt lighter and my neck looser. I’d almost completely relaxed by the time Lisa and Julie thundered in, flushed, shouting, tripping over the dog.

“Mom!”

“Mom! Guess what—”

“Guess who was on the news!”

“Remember Claudia? She sat for us? She’s—”

“She’s the third one—”

“—missing!”

Susan and I got to the television just as the picture switched from a young woman’s snapshot to the anchor.

“... five-month-old girl,” he said, “was found unharmed at home, asleep in a laundry basket. Like the other two missing childcare workers, Claudia Rusk disappeared in broad daylight, while working. We’ll keep you posted as police release further information. In other news, an Amtrak train—”

Susan snapped off the television. Her face was dark, drained. “No more TV,” she announced.

“But Mom, what happened to Claudia?”

“I don’t know. Set the table,” Susan breathed. “Zoe and Molly are staying for dinner.”

“She’s the third one missing. What’s going on? Do you think she was kidnapped?” Lisa squealed.

“No, stupid,” Julie replied. “Why would they kidnap the babysitter and not the baby?”

“Because of sex, stupid,” Lisa shook her head. “You’re too young to understand.”

“I am not—”

“That’s enough,” Susan yelled. “Stop it, both of you. We don’t know what happened. There’s nothing we can do about it, and it’s not our business, so let’s just have our dinner in peace. Go set the table.”

Muttering, the girls stomped into the kitchen. Susan stared vacantly after them. White knuckled, she held on to her ring finger, twisting her wedding band.

“Susan?” I asked. “Who’s Claudia?”

THREE

C
LAUDIA RUSK WORKED FOR SUSAN’S NEIGHBOR
.
SHE WAS A
friend of Susan’s nanny, Bonita, and had helped Susan on many occasions when Bonita couldn’t. Like Bonita, Claudia was a college student at night, earning tuition as a nanny by day. Now, Claudia had disappeared, leaving the neighbor’s baby in the laundry room, stuffed in a basket among dirty towels and undershirts. It made no sense. Why would she do that? Where had she gone? Why?

I thought about Claudia as I tucked Molly in. I thought about her as I went downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and snuggled under an afghan on my overstuffed crimson chair. I thought about her as I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Stop worrying, I told myself. Worrying won’t help. There’s nothing you can do about Claudia or her disappearance. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if, on the day she disappeared, Claudia had been wearing red nail polish.

I took deep breaths. I told myself to center my energy, not to think of the finger, Claudia, or the other missing women. Our doors were locked; Molly and I were secure inside our brown-stone. My bubble. It was a good bubble. I’d worked hard to put it together, and it was cozy. I looked around my tiny, cluttered living room. The built-in shelves filled with books and small treasures. My great-grandmother Bella’s heavy brass mortar and pestle for grinding flour, and her porcelain soup tureen, now
stuffed with dried flowers. On the walls, paintings by people I knew, aspiring artists like I used to be. A huge abstract oil, bold strokes of umber, yellow, and beige. A fat nude. An etching of a farm beneath a crescent moon.

The furniture was sparse and strewn with stuff: one of Molly’s many half-finished art projects with her jars of beads and bottles of Elmer’s glue, a half-dressed baby doll, a lone red knee sock, a well-worn teddy bear. In the far corner, the Stair-Master gathered dust, sulking and nagging at me. Last year, my New Year’s resolution had been to work out. I knew I should, but I hadn’t gotten around to it; the machine served primarily to take up space and tug at my conscience.

I adored my heavy purple sofa, the handwoven blankets draping its back, the cabinet I’d painted with funky designs, the chair I’d found at a flea market. Nothing matched. Colors, textures, and shapes had nothing in common except that I liked them. Yet, gathered together, all the pieces seemed to fit. Like odd members of a family, a collection of strays, they made this a home. I sipped my tea, feeling it warm my blood. Gradually, I let myself relax and felt the tension lift and went up to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I thought about Claudia; then I began to think about our sitter, Angela. She wasn’t a college student, not even trained as a professional nanny, but I trusted Angela and relied on her. She was almost a member of the family. She had her own house key. She’d once snaked our toilet. She scolded me about the way I loaded the dishwasher, tried to teach me how to organize my cabinets. Angela knew what went on behind our closed doors, our private stuff.

She stood maybe five feet tall, wore lots of large gold accessories, and blue eye makeup, had long sculpted fingernails, and dyed her hair purplish black. She had a throaty voice and a
loud, hoarse laugh. She’d been with her boyfriend, Joe, since high school and planned to marry him. Born and raised in South Philly, second youngest of five kids, she didn’t like to leave her neighborhood; Queen Village, a few blocks north, was about as far away as she’d venture. Except for the mall.

I usually smiled when I thought of Angela, the twang of her vowels, her street-smart, in-your-face attitude. Except now, I didn’t smile; I worried. Claudia and two other local nannies were missing, and someone had lost a finger. Angela could be in danger. I couldn’t bear to think about that; the idea was too awful. Besides, Angela was a babysitter, not, technically, a nanny. I wondered if the kidnapper would make the distinction.