lied. I wanted peace. I wanted calm. I wanted explanations from Nick.
Who was Nick, anyway? Could I trust him? I could understand him not telling me about his wife; he hardly knew me, and those memories were painful and private. But what about the finger? Why, especially when she knew about it already, had he pretended to Susan that no finger had been found at my door? Even if he didn’t want the press to jump on the story, why hadn’t he told me—someone supposedly helping him—the truth about something so significant as finding a body? Deliberate omission was the same as lying, wasn’t it?
I told myself not to jump to conclusions. I’d ask him about the finger and the body; I’d hear him out before reacting. He’d have perfectly reasonable explanations. Probably.
Meantime, I wouldn’t dwell on it. I’d go about my business. Molly and I made a pot of chicken soup. Well, we didn’t actually make it. We started with canned broth and added carrots, celery, noodles, onion, and chunks of cooked chicken. When it tasted like soup, we poured it into containers and delivered it across the street in time for lunch. First, we left one at Victor’s, ringing the bell to make sure he’d find it. Then we took one to Charlie’s. He opened his door, exhausted and bleary-eyed.
“I sweated all night, miss,” he said. “I saw a demon come through the wall, heard hell banging and buzzing, but I finally got the spell out of me. It was a spell, too, inside my head—”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Charlie. Careful, the container’s real full.”
“Thank you, miss. I appreciate this.” He took hold of the jar. “Remember what I said, though. Evil’s all around—you be careful. I know what I’m saying—I’ve seen things—”
“Don’t worry, Charlie. Get some rest and feel better.” I took Molly by the hand and escaped before he could launch a diatribe.
“What was Charlie talking about?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I told her. “Sometimes high fever makes people imagine things. It’s like having a bad dream that seems real.”
She nodded knowingly. “I’ve had those.”
I squeezed her hand. So had I.
Saturday passed without news of further disappearances, but the nannies were still on everyone’s minds. For the first time in days, I watched the early news on television. While the anchorwoman talked about the nanny case, a tips hotline phone number rolled along the bottom of the screen. The anchor said that so far over two hundred people had called in with tips and that the police were sorting through them, one by one. The screen showed a crisis center on South Street that had been opened to help locals deal with the stress caused by the case. Then the anchor discussed the ongoing investigation, mentioning the profile by an expert forensic psychologist. In the next shot, Beverly Gardener was standing close beside Nick Stiles, surrounded by a ring of handheld microphones.
“Dr. Gardener’s profile has been invaluable. It’s catapulted our investigation forward,” Nick said.
Someone asked, “Detective Stiles, is it true that several people have confessed to being the Nannynapper?”
The camera zoomed in close; Nick’s eyes penetrated the screen. “We have nothing credible at this point. False confessions are not uncommon in cases like this. But regardless, we intend to close this case soon.”
The anchorwoman came back, remarking that, despite an experienced police investigating team, an expert profiler, and hundreds of tipsters, there still were no concrete leads to the identity of the Nannynapper.
I shut off the television and tried to do normal things. I made phone calls. I called Leslie to see how she and Billy were doing; no one answered. I reached Karen and set up a playdate for Molly and Nicholas. We talked about the nannies. Susan’s gun. What we mothers were going to do. How we’d organize a buddy system, an e-mail list and phone chain.
Michael called twice; both times, I put him off. Mostly, I spent the afternoon doing the usual weekend chores: shopping, answering e-mail—mostly from Michael—scrubbing floors, straightening up, doing laundry. Molly and I worked as a team; while I cleaned one mess, she made another. Around six, just as I was about to order Chinese, the phone rang.
“Hi. You busy?” “Nick?”
“Bad time? Am I interrupting?”
“No—it’s fine. What’s up?” Ask him about the body, I thought. Find out why he didn’t tell you.
“I remembered you said you hardly ever went out to dinner, so I took a chance, hoping you’d be free. Are you?”
Was I? “I guess so, but—”
“Good.