Merry Jones - The Nanny Murders

THE
NANNY
MURDERS

THE
NANNY
MURDERS

MERRY JONES

The Nanny Murders is a work of fiction; any resemblance between its characters and real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS .
An imprint of St. Martins Press.

THE NANNY MURDERS . Copyright 2005 by Merry Jones. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 0-312-33038-3
EAN 978-0312-33038-5

First Edition: May 2005

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Robin

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Deep and lasting gratitude to Liza Dawson, my agent, and to Thomas Dunne, Marcia Markland, and Diana Szu at Thomas Dunne Books. They are my heroes, and I have been lucky to work with them.

Thanks also to Emily Heckman for her invaluable insights and guidance; my mom, Judy Bloch, for her consistent and avid support; my sister Janet Martin for her sound advice; Larry Stains for steering me to Liza; Lanie Zera for her in-depth analyses and spiritual vitamins; Nancy Delman, Jane Braun, Susie Francke, Gina Joseph, Leslie Mogul, and Jan and Michael Molinaro for their years-long encouragement; Bob Sexton for the pencils; Patty and Michael Glick for the pen; Ileana Stevens for that long-ago conversation on the beach; our Corgi, Sam, for his uncritical calming companionship while I wrote.

Boundless appreciation to my daughters, Baille and Neely, for their unfailing confidence and cooperation.

Thanks to my husband, Robin, for his repeated readings, honest input, enduring patience, persevering faith, and unflagging determination, even when he was so severely ill.

Thanks to a few who are dearly missed: my friend Susan Stone; my brother, Aaron Bloch, and my dad, Herman S. Bloch, who remain close by despite death and the passage of time.

ONE

S MALL FOOTPRINTS LED DOWN THE STEPS TO THE SIDEWALK where Molly played in the snow.

I sat on the front porch, absorbing a stray beam of late afternoon sun while my almost six-year-old daughter delighted in two inches of what would soon become puddles of sodden gray slush. I was tired from a daylong monthly staff meeting and craved some peace. A few houses down, a workman started up his chain saw.

our neighborhood, Queen Village, was caught in an endless process of renovation and gentrification. We were sandwiched between South Philadelphia with its traditional ethnic households and Society Hill with its fancy colonial landmarks. Dowdy old row houses sagged beside gleaming restorations. The neighborhood was home to both rich and poor, the upwardly mobile and the newly disenfranchised. The area was struggling for respectability, but despite the disruption of continuous construction, it was unclear whether it would get there.

Watching Molly play beside parked cars and grimy gutters, I imagined living in some shiny suburb on the Main Line Gladwyne, maybe, or Rosemont or Bryn Mawr. Someplace where trees, not trash, lined the streets; where kids played on grass, not asphalt.

I often thought of moving. But I still hadnt left. Despite my complaints, I thrived on the citys energy, its sounds and faces, its moving parts. I wasnt sure how long Id hold out, but Id worked hard to make us a home here, and so far Id refused to give it up.

Mom, Molly called, what if my tooth comes out and falls in the snow?

Its not ready to come out yet.

Are you sure?

Positive.

Because wed never find it. Everythings white.

It wont come out today.

She was quiet again, working the snow.

Mom, she called moments later, its not enough. I need more.

She knelt near the curb, gathering handfuls of snow in her mittens, packing them into a lump.

I came down the steps and stooped beside her. Whats the problem?

I need more snow. She stared hopelessly at the tiny mound.

I reached into my pockets and found an old phone bill. Try this. I scraped snow with the envelope, making it a paper snowplow.

okay. She grabbed the envelope and plowed away. I wandered back up to the wrought-iron chair on the porch, leaned my head back against the wall, and closed my eyes.

Mom, guess what Im making?

What?

Guess.

She wasnt going to let me rest. A snowman?

Nope.

I give up.

No, guess again.

She wont always be five years old, I told myself. You can rest when shes in college. Hmm. A sneaker.

Uh-uh.

The letter Q?

No.

W?

Nope. Dont be silly. Its not any letter.

Then it must be a washing machine.

Stop being silly, Mom.

I opened my eyes. Dozing wasnt going to happen. Molly kept plowing, patting, building. Well?

Give me time. Im thinking. I stretched the pause, savoring it. Across the street, the blinds went up in Victors second-floor window. I watched, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Victor was phobic. To my knowledge, he hadnt left his house in years. I didnt know why, although local lore was rife with explanations. one rumor held that Victors mother had died in the house and he hadnt left since; another that a fortune-teller had warned him hed meet a violent end next time he stepped onto the street. Despite the stories, I suspected that Victors real problems were locked inside the house with him, in his own head. Apparently, he had money to live on; groceries, laundry, pizza, and parcels arrived at his door regularly. once in a while, Molly and I left him baskets of muffins or cookies; the food disappeared, but we rarely saw Victor. Now, pale hands taped a cardboard snowman to the glass. The blinds went down again. Hands, but no face. This wouldnt count, then, as an actual Victor sighting.

Even unseen, Victor was one of the only neighbors I knew. Victor and old Charlie, Victors next-door neighbor. Charlie was the handyman for the remodeled townhouses across the street. Somebody new had moved into the house on the other side of Charlie. I hadnt met him yet, but Id become well acquainted with the huge electric Santa and reindeer that flashed on and off, day and night, from his first-floor window like the sign at an all-night diner. Every blink announced that Christmas was coming and that I wasnt ready, hadnt gotten organized, didnt even have our tree. or presents or baking ingredients or decorations. Mom?

oh. Molly was still waiting for my guess. okayI bet I have it. Its a song.

A song? She turned to look at me. Youre teasing. You cant make a song out of snow.

You mean its not a song? Then I give up.

okay. Ill tell you. Shes a snowbaby. A little iddy biddy one. She busied herself gathering and shaping snow, narrating her process. And her names going to be Kelly. No. Emma... She jabbered on, accompanied by the chain saw. I let my head rest against the bricks, my eyelids float down, my mind drift.

Eww. Yuck.

Eww, yuck? I didnt want to get up again. I didnt even want to open my eyes. The sun felt so gentle and soothing. A warm caress. Molly. Remember, dont touch stuff you find in the street. Leave it alone. Okay?

Silence. Damn. What relic of city life had she found now? I always worried about debris she might encounter on the sidewalk. Broken Budweiser bottles, used needles. Discarded underwear. Used condoms. Molly? What are you doing?