EVEN WITH THE BAD WEATHER, GYMNASTICS CLASS WAS packed. All the moms showed up, even Leslie. Pale and thin, she seemed to have lost weight in just days. She hadn’t answered her phone or returned calls all week. But she’d shown up for the meeting. And I was glad to see her. “Are you managing okay?” I asked her.
“You should go to your mother-in-law’s place in Florida,” Karen advised. “Get some sun for a few days. Thaw out.”
“I can’t. It’d probably rain and I’d be stuck inside with Billy and my mother-in-law.”
There were sympathetic chuckles. “Well, we’re glad you’re here.”
“Besides, Florida wouldn’t be an escape. Tamara’d still be gone no matter where I went.” “But you’d get a change of scene.”
Leslie shook her head. “You don’t leave your head behind. Trouble travels with you.”
Charlie whispered for me to go home and stay there. I shrugged him away, but he was in my head. Like trouble.
“Leslie, you should get some pills—Zoloft or Paxil. Ask your doctor. You don’t have to feel so bad, even with all that’s happened.” Davinder was the local expert on prescription drugs.
“Yeah, I know,” Leslie sighed. “But pills won’t change the truth. Those poor girls. And Tamara—I really miss her. I really, really do.”
“Oh, come on,” Gretchen piped up. “Let’s stop concentrating on the bleak side. Life could be a whole lot worse.” She smiled, pleased, as if she thought she’d said something helpful.
With that, Susan cleared her throat and stood to begin the meeting. “Well, it looks like most everyone’s here, so let’s get started. Why don’t we begin by brainstorming? List everything we’ve thought of to do, and then form a committee to follow up on each? I’ll read my list to start with, and then we can add other ideas.”
The discussion took off, women sharing ideas, uniting their efforts, combining their strengths. We formed six committees. I’d volunteered as a block captain for town watch and as cochair with Gretchen to set up a buddy program, so young women wouldn’t travel the neighborhood alone. Finally, with committees defined, deadlines set up and sign-up sheets posted, Susan handed out whistles and we began stringing them on necklaces.
“Is there any more news about Tamara?” Karen asked.
Leslie shook her head. “The police don’t tell us anything. To them, she’s just one of the missing nannies.”
“They weren’t all nannies, you know. That fourth one was actually the mother, not a sitter. She’d adopted a baby from China.”
I tensed, listening.
“Really? Well, that breaks the pattern, doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. The mom was blonde and fair. The baby was Chinese, so she didn’t look like her mother. Plus, the mom was young, in her twenties. The killer probably thought she was a nanny.”
“Killer? Why’d you say ‘killer’? Do we actually know that they’re dead? I mean, they haven’t found any bodies, have they?”
“Who knows what they’ve found?” Susan said, her eyes meeting mine. “They’re probably withholding a lot of what they know, so they don’t tip the guy off.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Not just nannies were victims. Adoptive mothers might be targets, too. I wasn’t going to mention the garbage bag or fingers. Neither, apparently, was Susan.
On the other side of the glass, Coach Gene cheerfully demonstrated a cartwheel on the balance beam. Kids in leotards bounced on trampolines, did flips on uneven parallel bars. I envied their innocence, their glee.
Gretchen opened a box of homemade Christmas cookies. “Okay, we have our plan. Now let’s cut the glumness. Help yourselves.” She took a star coated with green sugar. We passed the rest around, and for a while we munched and talked, trying to be normal. A cheery tape of “Jingle Bells” drifted in from the gym, the music, the conversation as weightless as snowflakes. But, instead of mistletoe and holly on the walls, we hung alarm whistles on string.
“Peas?” I heard Davinder ask. “Your kids eat peas?”
“They love peas. Frozen, straight from the box, like candy. Or in tuna, or with rotini and cheese.”
I wandered off and sat by the observation window, watching the children practice, listening to the lulling rhythm, the gentle flow of women’s chatter. After a while, Leslie drifted over and sat beside me, staring quietly at her knees. She was deeply depressed about Tamara. I thought about suggesting help, offering her a referral, but then Karen joined us.
“Is Billy okay, Leslie?” she asked.
The voice startled her, bringing her back. “Huh?”
“I wondered if he’s changed. You know, his sleeping or eating. Sometimes with kids, that’s the only way to tell if something’s wrong. Emotionally. I mean. He must be a mess with Tamara being gone and you and his dad being so upset—”
Karen stopped midsentence. The interruption wasn’t a noise or even a gasp; it was a sudden, pervasive silence. Leslie spun around to face the door. Everyone froze as the stranger entered and scanned the room. I looked up and, in the instant before he saw me, I had just enough time to recognize Charlie—and the fact that he was carrying a gun.