The nanny murders (28 page)

Finally, we slid to a stop at the door of the shed. I dropped the bags and scanned the walls with the flashlight. There were hooks holding showshoes and bicycles, shovels and rakes. Hooks holding saws and axes and drills and hammers. But no hooks holding keys. Damn.

“Where are they, Molly? Where would Nick keep his keys?” “Maybe inside the truck. In the glove compartment? Can I look, Mom?” She ran to the door of the truck. “Let me.”

“Why can’t I? I thought of it.” “Molly, please don’t whine.” “But why can’t I?” She stopped whining. “Here, hold the thermos.”

I climbed into the truck, leaned over the passenger seat, and reached inside. Maps. Headache pills. Kleenex. Candy bars. A yo-yo. Registration and insurance cards—a yo-yo?

A yo-yo. It was red and blue, made of wood. Blinking at it, I stuffed everything back into the glove compartment, slammed it shut, and yanked my hand away. There wasn’t time to dwell on a yo-yo. The yo-yo didn’t matter. All that mattered was the keys.

Still eyeing the glove compartment, I felt above the sun visor, under the driver’s seat. That’s where I found them, on the floor, under the seat. Next to the gun.

I pulled my hand back as if from a fire.

Of course, there was a gun under the driver’s seat. Nick was a cop; cops had guns. He probably kept them all over the place, under cushions, in the bread box. No big deal. Not for Nick.

Just take the keys and go, I told myself. I reached under the seat and retrieved the keys.

“Got ‘em,” I said, holding up the key ring.

“Yeah, Mommy. You rule. Let’s blow this pop stand.”

“Let’s what?” Where did she get those expressions?

She wiggled her tooth, shrugging. “Angela says that.”

The ring held lots of keys. A dozen, at least. Lord. What were they all for? I climbed out, grabbed Molly, and hefted her up into the cab. As she climbed across to the passenger seat, I tossed in our bags and hopped up behind the wheel. I slid the driver’s seat forward so my feet could reach the pedals, aimed a key at the ignition, tried another and another until I found one that fit. Then I pushed down on the clutch, held down the brake, felt for a hand brake—was there a hand brake?—released what I thought was a hand brake, stepped on the gas, and turned the key. The engine sputtered and coughed. Then it died. Damn.

“What’s wrong with the truck?” Molly wanted to know.

Good question. Was the battery dead? Was it frozen? Was there any gas? “I don’t know.”

“Do you even know how to drive a truck?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then why isn’t it going?”

“Molly. Give me a second, okay?”

Try it again, I told myself. I turned the key. The engine gurgled. I stayed on the gas. It complained and it groaned, but it finally came to life. Molly gave it a round of applause.

“I never rode in a truck before, Mommy.”

“Me either.”

“Then how do you know how to drive one?”

Oops, she’d caught me. “It’s not that different from a car.”

She pondered that.

“Don’t worry, Mollybear. We’re fine.”

She looked unconvinced but stopped chattering for a while.

The truck forged slowly through the snow, grumbling loudly. Time to shift, I told myself. Shift. Remember how? I found the clutch, pushed down, pulled the stick—and cringed at the piercing screams of grinding metal. The truck lurched to a halt. Oops, I thought. The gears.

“Mommy, what was that?” Molly cried.

“It’s fine.” We weren’t even off of Nick’s driveway, and I’d already stalled. There was a lever in the car—connected to the plow? I pulled it, and the plow lowered into plowing position. Amazing. Something actually was working. Molly kept talking, giving me advice on how to drive.

Start over, I told myself. Get the timing. Push down on the clutch. Now shift. Now accelerate. Now—slowly—release the clutch. Better. A bit of a jolt, but no screeches or stalls.

For endless minutes, the truck snorted and chugged. At first, Molly reacted to each bump. She asked questions about how the plow worked, about Nick. She criticized my driving, cited Angela’s expert advice, and updated me on the status of her teeth, showing that another one was loose. As we chortled around curves, through hills, along walls of silent pines, she eventually leaned back in her seat and dozed. For miles, I drove randomly, with no idea where we were or how to get to a main road. My eyes darted around, checking the rearview mirror as if someone might be following, knowing that no one was. Finally, the winding side road reached an intersection. Not a major artery, but big enough to merit a stop sign. I turned onto it, heading east toward the rising glow in the sky. Chester County was west of the city. So I was headed in the right direction. Soon the sun was higher; shadows evolved into shapes. And the road led to Route 30. A familiar number. I took it. Snow coated the pavement, and
the truck felt clumsy, drove heavily, sluggish with the weight of the plow, but when we hit 202 I knew my way. Even with the snow, we could make town in under an hour. We were on our way home. Whatever awful memories awaited me there, they were mine, and I’d deal with them in my way, on my own. I would face Charlie’s empty house and the truth about what had happened there. And if I had my way, I’d never hear of Nick Stiles or Beverly Gardener again.

FIFTY-SIX

T
HE ROAD WAS SLICK WITH SLUSH AND ICE
. I
SPED THROUGH A
frigid landscape of hilly suburbs and industrial parks onto the Schuylkill Expressway. Molly slept while Nick’s truck roared like a beast, too loud for me to hear my own mind. I floored the pedal, surging ahead, slowing down for no one.

Time hung suspended; distance was its only measure. Snowflakes swirled against the windshield, dissolving into droplets, getting wiped away. Wheels spun furiously under us while Molly and I sat motionless, waiting for the monotonous, interchangeable scenes out the window to pass, replaced by images of our destination. Of home. From now on, I’d rely on nobody, let no one too close. It would be just me and Molly. Molly and me. We were our whole family, didn’t need anyone else.

At last, the Vine Street Expressway. At Sixth, I turned off and plowed south, literally. Not much traffic, due to the snow. A few pedestrians, up to their knees. Arch, JFK, Market, Chestnut, Walnut. I pressed on steadily, unstoppably, toward our street, inch by inch, block by block.

Finally, we approached our street. Everything was quiet, coated with white. Construction vehicles, cars, and vans lay buried, lifeless under mounds of snow. Behind Mr. Woods’s snow-blocked window, Santa throbbed like a painful wound; in
Victor’s upstairs window, the blinds were shut tight but oddly askew. Charlie’s house looked mournful, drooping yellow tape separating it from the street, snow hanging heavily on its roof. The street seemed off balance and bruised, but even so, I was glad to be there. We were home.

I hadn’t thought of parking when I’d taken the truck. Finding a spot wouldn’t be easy. Except that I was driving a damn snow-plow. No one would argue with a double-parked snowplow. Not today. I parked alongside one of Jake’s trucks and woke up Molly.

“Mollybear, we’re home.”

She opened her eyes, blinked, and looked around. I gathered our bags and went around the truck to help her out. When I came around and opened her door, she was busy with her tooth.

“Hop out,” I said.

“Huh-uh.” She shook her head, still wiggling. “Come on, Molly, let’s—”

“Aach!” Eyes wide, Molly held out a tiny, blood-coated kernel. “Your tooth!”

She grinned, revealing a blank space in her ravaged gums. Blood trickled along her fingers and over her teeth. As she noticed, her chin began to wobble; her eyes filled with alarm.

“It’s okay—you’ll be fine.” I kissed her, then searched for some white snow and packed a snowball. “Try this. Press it onto your gum.”

“Bite it?”

“Yup.”

“It’ll get all bloody.”

“It’ll stop the bleeding.” We traded. She took the snowball, and I took her first lost tooth and placed it safely in a tissue in my pocket. Then I reached out to lift her out of the cab. Just then, Phillip Woods’s door swung open. I expected to see him
emerge with a shovel or a snow blower, prepared to clear his front walk.

Instead, dressed in knee-high boots and a red sheared-beaver coat, her long brunette hair loose and blowing in the wind, Beverly Gardener stepped onto the porch and marched up the street, cutting her way through the snow.

FIFTY-SEVEN

W
E FOLLOWED HER
.

“Get back in,” I told Molly and closed the door before she could take the snowball out of her mouth to ask a question. I went around to the driver’s side and climbed into the cab. Without thinking. Without quite knowing why.

“Why aren’t we getting out?” Molly asked. The snowball was melting, dripping in her hands.

“Here, open the window. Throw that out. It stopped bleeding, I think.” I started the engine.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not sure—I want to see where that lady’s going.”

She cranked down her window and threw out the mushy snow. “Why? Who is she?”

“Someone from work. I want to know what she was doing at Mr. Woods’s house.”

“But I want to go home—”

“We will. Soon.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

“And can we make pancakes?”

“We’ll see.” When Beverly was a few houses up the block, certain that she hadn’t seen me, I started driving, staying half a block behind.

What would I do if she saw us? Confront her? Demand to know the truth about her relationship with Woods? With Nick?
If she didn’t see us, how long would I follow her? Would I lurk with Molly indefinitely outside her condo? Or in front of a store if she went shopping? And what if she was meeting Nick?

I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I was ready to take both Nick and Beverly on and make a fool of myself, even in front of Molly. I kept going. At Sixth Street, she walked north. Damn. Sixth was one-way south. I couldn’t follow. I pulled over and watched her. And saw her get into the driver’s seat of Nick’s old Volvo, parked halfway up the block.

FIFTY-EIGHT

I
WATCHED FROM THE INTERSECTION AS THE
V
OLVO STRUGGLED
out of its parking spot. It pushed through snow and made its way right past us. I waited until the car was a few houses down, then lowered the plow and followed, shoving snow aside, blocking driveways and walling in cars as I went. Where was she heading? At Bainbridge, she turned left, progressing at a slow but steady pace to Fifth, where she turned left again and went north, crossing Lombard, Pine, Spruce, Walnut. When she got to Market, she made another left. Gradually, as she crossed Broad Street and continued west toward Thirtieth Street Station, I recognized the route. We were on the way to work.

The Institute parking lot was only half plowed and nearly empty; it was the weekend, and undoubtedly the blizzard had kept everyone but essential staff away. Weekend visiting hours wouldn’t begin until three, not for hours. Beverly Gardener pulled into a spot in the plowed part of the lot and headed inside. Was Nick waiting in her office? Sleeping on her lush leather sofa? I envisioned his bare chest. Stop it, I told myself. Think about what you’re doing.

I knew what I was doing. I was setting myself up for a fullblown emotional catastrophe by confronting Nick and Beverly together, at my place of employment, with my daughter by my side. I was about to humiliate myself beyond my wildest imaginings,
but I didn’t care. I felt good. Righteous. Ready for high drama. Catharsis. It would be cleansing, better than throwing up.

Even so, I thought better of subjecting Molly to the spectacle. She’d stay with the security guard in the foyer for a few minutes. I wouldn’t be gone long.

After Beverly went in, I waited a few seconds to give her time to clear the foyer. I didn’t want her to see me, not yet. When I thought she’d made it to the hall, I pulled up to the front door, took Molly out of the truck, and led her into the Institute.

But the foyer was empty. Where was the security guard— what was his name—Reginald? Something like that. He was on duty during the quiet shifts on weekends, covering Agnes’s reception desk until afternoon visiting hours. Why wasn’t he there? What was I going to do with Molly?

We walked toward the desk, past the monstrous, glittering tree. Rufus—was that his name? Rufus must have gone on a coffee break. Probably he’d be right back. We kept walking, passing his desk. The nameplate read
RUPERT SIMPSON
. That was it: Rupert. Well, Rupert still wasn’t there. I’d have to take Molly with me. Maybe it would be better that way; with Molly along, I’d have to behave myself.

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“I’m not sure.”

I looked up the main corridors, past empty offices, bulletin boards, water fountains. Which way had Beverly gone? Where was she? I looked, listened for footsteps. Heard, saw nothing.

“I want to go home.”

“I know. Soon.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t. Where’s your art studio?” “Over that way.”

Molly kept chattering, and I answered her automatically,
without thought, trying to figure out what to do. Up the middle corridor, the empty elevator opened, then closed; someone had pressed the button. Beverly? We followed the sound, heading toward the elevator, and Molly finally stopped talking. We passed locked office doors, heard and saw no one. Not one nurse or an orderly. Not a single staff member. I stopped and listened, heard only the echo of our own steps.

Of course, I reasoned, it was too early for visitors. And the blizzard had probably reduced the staff. A few doctors on call would straggle in later. Silence was not necessarily an indication of trouble. Still, the quiet was unsettling. Unnerving. Then I saw Rupert, sitting on a bench across the hall. What was he doing? Waiting for the elevator?

I nodded at him. He didn’t respond. He sat slouched, staring at his lap. “Rupert?” I asked. “You all right?”

No answer. Amazing. The man was dozing, napping on the job. Should I wake him up? Embarrass him? Molly let go of my hand and pushed the elevator button. “Are we going up, Mommy?”