The Ice Maiden

by Edna Buchanan

  “Sunny?”

  “Britt?”

  She quickly motioned me inside and slammed the door to keep the sand storm from escaping into the lobby. The dust around us was dense and gritty, the sort that rises when demolition crews implode old buildings. Pressing my muffler to my face, I followed her through her studio and the double doors to the kitchen/living area.

  My eyes stung and I was gasping for breath by the time she closed the kitchen doors behind us. She removed her safety goggles, peeled off her rubber mask and breathing cartridge, and removed a foam plug from her good ear.

  “You aren’t allergic to dust, are you?”

  “Not until now,” I said, amid a paroxysm of coughing. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Working. It makes a lot of dust,” she acknowledged. “That’s why I wear protection, to filter out the silica released by the marble.”

  “Thanks for warning me,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to clear my sinuses.

  “I didn’t expect you. Do you ever call first?”

  “I have a message from your mom.”

  She studied me suspiciously. “Why are you wearing earmuffs?”

  “Don’t point fingers,” I said. “The fashion police are probably looking for both of us.” She didn’t smile. I took off my earmuffs.

  “Okay,” I said apologetically. “I’m sorry I interrupted your work again.”

  She shrugged. “I’m overdue for a break.” She glanced at a school clock on the wall. “Way overdue. OSHA advises people working with pneumatic tools to stop every twenty minutes.” Reluctantly, she loosened the Velcro wrist straps and removed the heavy glove.

  “I wear it on my hammer hand,” she explained, flexing her fingers as though they were stiff. “It’s filled with an absorbent gel that supports your wrist but frees your fingers to work.” Her long graceful hands were as slender as a surgeon’s.

  “I didn’t realize art could be so like construction work,” I said.

  “You do need lots of upper-body strength,” she said, splashing cranberry juice into a blender. “On your feet, your concentration is high, you’re swinging the hammer, using the chisel.” She added scoops of yogurt to the juice. “But I think the fatigue is more mental than anything. It’s easier with the pneumatic hammer. Once you get a rhythm going, it’s just a matter of guiding the hammer.” She took a plastic bag of sliced bananas from the freezer, and they too went into the mix. “It’s so easy to lose track of time,” she said, as the blender whirred. “It’s hard to stop work until you’re at a place where you’re able to leave it.”

  She poured the thick creamy concoction into two tall glasses and handed me one. Icy cold, sweet, and delicious, it was probably good for me but it lacked…something. Caffeine, I realized.

  I hung my parka and my scarf on her coatrack and pulled a wooden stool up to her little table. “Those tools are dangerous to work with, aren’t they?”

  “You have to know what you’re doing,” she agreed, “and even then you get hurt. I had a cut on my thigh that needed twenty stitches. Tools get stuck and kick, a block of stone can topple onto your foot, your fingers get pinched, stone chips will hit you in the eye.”

  “Why do it?” I asked. “I never could.”

  “I could never do what you do.” We eyed each other warily across the table.

  Upstairs, the saxophone still wailed in a melancholy melody.

  “You don’t mind the serenade?” I asked, rolling my eyes at the ceiling.

  “I’m in no position to complain,” she said, with a hint of a smile, “but I don’t mind at all. He’s a musician and a good neighbor, works nights and weekends at a club in South Beach. If his music bothered me, I’d just wear the earplug. I have great neighbors, they’re almost never here: flight attendants and a troupe of cruise ship entertainers.” She paused. “You spoke to my mother?”

  “Right. Your dad too. I even met Tyler.”

  She bit her lip. “You said she sent a message?”

  “She worries. Wants you to take care of your skin, SPF twenty, so you don’t regret it later. She also wants you to eat right.”

  “So typical,” she said softly.

  Up close, without the rubber mask and plastic goggles, I saw that Sunny had inherited her mother’s flawless bone structure, the classic nose, the high cheekbones. “She didn’t say all that in front of my dad, right? Or ask about my work.”

  “True. How’d you know?”

  “He’s a very strong personality.” Sunny sighed. “How is my mother?”

  “Sad she doesn’t see more of you.”

  “I’m very involved in my work,” she said with a shrug. “And my mother is into Gucci, Pucci, and Chanel.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, secretly delighted at what we shared in common. “My mom is also into high fashion, while I insist that any initials on my clothes, my purse, or my shoes should be mine, not some rich stranger’s.”

  Sunny laughed, a sudden girlish peal, framed by flashing white teeth. “My sentiments exactly.” She cautiously touched her dusty hat. “If she saw me…Even with all this I can’t keep the dust out of my hair. It just settles into the scalp somehow. I have to wash it every day. My work leaves layers of dust on my clothes, my shoes, everything. That’s why I have an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner and sleep out here instead of in the studio.”

  “How did you ever get into it?”

  “Studied art as part of my therapy program. I was in therapy, you know, for some time.” She gazed at me over the rim of her glass.

  “Who wouldn’t be?” I murmured.

  “I highly recommend it,” she said lightly, “even for those who aren’t raped, shot, and left for dead.”

  She had my attention.

  “Your mother mentioned your uncle’s influence.”

  “He owned a wonderful restaurant in Chicago, and I’d watch him make ice carvings. He taught me. I loved the creative aspect but wanted to do more permanent things that didn’t just melt and disappear. So I began working with alabaster. It’s softer, lighter, and you do pieces by hand. My doctors and my parents seemed delighted that I’d found a therapeutic way to express myself. Nobody took it seriously except me. I’d found what I was always meant to do. I’m lucky,” she said solemnly. “Some people never do.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s a blessing.”

  “I’m sure I would have found my calling anyway.” She averted her eyes. “It might have taken a little longer and perhaps the medium would have been different….”

  She paused, as though reminiscing.

  “In my early twenties, over huge objections from my parents, I went to Italy alone, to Pietrasanta, near Carrara, an international center for marble work. I rented a small space in a marble-carving studio. You have a table and a hookup to the air compressor—and you learn. I stayed for eighteen months, even learned some Italian.”

  “Sounds romantic,” I said. “Italian men—”

  “—love blondes. They hit on me like crazy. The ones I studied with were all macho and competitive. You know: ‘I am carving a three-ton piece.’ ‘Oh, really, I am working on a four-ton piece.’” She imitated a male Italian-accented voice. “I was just another art student. No one there knew about my…past. I was focused. I only wanted one thing. My time there was short; the work was my passion. It still is. They finally wrote me off as unapproachable, a bitch. They called me una ragazza di ghiaccio, an ice maiden. Lots of other young Americans were there too, but most of them weren’t as serious as I was. They wanted to drink wine and hang out with artists, you know, while I went out to the quarries, picked up scraps, and worked all night.”

  “I can relate,” I said. “Sometimes a passion for work takes over your life.”

  “Then I got lucky,” Sunny said. “I met a team planning the restoration of a twelfth-century cathedral in Lyon, France. They invited me to work with them, replacing rotted blocks and the heads of gargoyles. It was wonderful.”

  I no
dded, imagining how exciting it must have been.

  She paused, her soft smile fading into a somber expression. “You didn’t come here just to deliver a message from my mother. Why did you bother my family?”

  “A new development,” I said. “The police think they’ve identified a second suspect in your case. If so, it’s only a matter of time before they find the others. I hoped that if I couldn’t convince you to cooperate with the detectives, maybe your parents could.”

  She stared at the tabletop. “So what did they say?”

  “That they have no influence; it’s up to you. Except for your kid brother, Tyler, of course, who went postal, cursed me out, and slashed my tire.”

  “Your tire?” Her brow furrowed. “Poor Tyler,” she murmured. “That doesn’t sound like him. He usually doesn’t lash out at others, only himself.”

  “He was upset. His convertible had been towed.”

  She chuckled. “Now that sounds more like my brother. He keeps my father busy bailing him out of trouble.”

  “Too bad,” I said.

  “Not for my father. He likes it that way; it keeps him in control. So you came back here to twist my arm.”

  “Not at all,” I said, jealous that she had a father she chose to ignore, while I would have given anything for some time with my dad. “I live on the beach too. This is more a social call—though I was hoping you might talk to the detectives.”

  She took our empty glasses to the sink. I followed, making sure to stay on the side of her good ear as she turned away from me.

  “Listen, I paid my dues. They stole a lot of my life, and they took Ricky’s.” She sighed. “Now you’ve done it,” she whispered, eyes suddenly moist. “I hadn’t spoken his name in years.”

  She rinsed the glasses in the sink and dried them briskly with a terry-cloth dish towel. “Life is short. I won’t let them steal any more of mine.”

  “Even to achieve justice for yourself and Ricky?”

  “It won’t work.” She shook her head. “No one can ever retrieve time lost. Can I simply demand my life back? Will anything bring Ricky back? They took enough.” Her back to the sink, she hugged her arms. “It’s easy for you to tell me what I should do. You weren’t there. Did they tell you I had no hair in the beginning? They shaved it off when I had surgery. I was sick; the headaches were horrible. I had a problem with my lungs. You don’t know what it was like. Riding endlessly through parking lots with the police looking for the killers’ van, examining photo after photo, viewing lineup after lineup, my head aching, sick to my stomach, answering the same questions over and over, giving statement after statement, looking at pictures of other people’s nightmares. They even hypnotized me, hoping to retrieve details I might have blocked out.

  “In spite of the bad dreams, in spite of everything, I did it all, whatever they asked. It was so hard.” Her hands kneaded one another, eyes pleading for understanding. “But it was even harder when I wasn’t with the police. Facing Ricky’s parents was worse. And my parents. I worked with the investigators for more than a year. Finally I realized that I had to try to live, if they would only let me. All I remember is looking up at the sky and begging God….”

  She paced the room still clutching her arms as though cold. “It’s not that the police officers weren’t decent, good people,” she said quietly. “They thought the murderers might come back to eliminate the only witness. Me. Some nights I would lie there and wish they would. A young policewoman stayed with me, trying to help me remember. She was like a big sister. We really became attached. And I know how much Detective Burch cared. But eventually you have to leave the trauma behind, along with the detectives who are part of that trauma. How can you heal when they keep making you relive that terrible night? You understand?”

  She sat on the stool across from me again, her expression earnest.

  “They were part of what I had to leave behind in order to go on, to have a life. The time finally came when I never wanted to see any of them again.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “But don’t you think putting those men away for good would stop the nightmares, the bad dreams? I’ve seen it happen many times.”

  “But, Britt, what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m well now. I’m good. Doing what I love. I don’t have bad dreams. You want to know what I dream about every night?”

  She told me, hands folded on the small table, blue eyes aglow, features serene.

  “I dream about seeing incredible sculptures. I dream about visiting Mayan ruins, seeing ancient works. I dream about Michelangelo.” She paused. “Oh, my God, Britt. Can you imagine what he could have done with a pneumatic hammer?”

  “You’ve grown up,” I persisted. “You’re strong enough to look back on it all from a distance. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Yes, there is,” she said softly. “I like my dreams now. I don’t want the old ones coming back.”

  “You wouldn’t even have to see the same faces. The Cold Case Squad detectives weren’t even cops when it happened. Why not talk to them? Once. See how you feel.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, seeing me to the door, her expression frozen, eyes already distant. “I’ll call you.”

  As I tried to brush the dust off my clothes outside her apartment, I thought, Sure, she’ll call me—the day hell freezes over.

  9

  “Can’t blame ’er,” Burch muttered gruffly as I sat at his desk and described my visit with Sunny. “You gave it your best shot. How about going back over there tomorrow, take one of my guys, whichever one is available, introduce ’im to Sunny, and see what happens. Worst she can do is slam the door on ’im.”

  “Okay,” I said, watching a Kodak moment taking place behind the glass walls of K. C. Riley’s office. She pored over papers, McDonald leaning over her shoulder. I blinked and looked away.

  “Got it bad, huh?” Burch said.

  “No way.” I feigned surprise. “She’s not my type.”

  He guffawed. “Come on, Britt. I’ve been there myself and it’s a bitch.”

  Like hell. Who is he kidding? I thought, married to his high school sweetheart all these years. It made me uneasy that he’d noticed. Cops are notorious gossips, and station-house rumors fly faster than speeding bullets.

  I left Burch busy on the phone, hating myself for deliberately timing my departure with McDonald’s. He was on the elevator, door closing. He saw me and hit the button, just in time.

  “Thanks.” I stepped primly aboard. “I forgot what fast reflexes you have.”

  “How’s the story coming?” He stood against the far wall watching me. What the hell was his body language saying?

  “Still reporting,” I said.

  “I’m jealous. Those Cold Case guys are monopolizing your time.” Was he teasing?

  “Surprised you noticed. I thought you were too busy breathing in K. C. Riley’s ear.”

  He reacted, then grinned. “So we’re both jealous. Well, a little jealousy is only human.”

  “But not always attractive.” I sighed.

  Was the magnetic pull I felt one-sided? Was the sizzle still there for him too? I wondered, as we descended in silence.

  “They say the best way to love anything is to know you might lose it,” he finally said. He’d stopped smiling.

  “Pretty profound for a cop,” I said softly.

  The door opened too soon, spilling us out into the busy lobby. I wanted to continue, to ride up and down for a while, to prolong this conversation.

  “I have a meeting,” he said reluctantly.

  “So do I.”

  We exchanged hot looks, then parted. As usual.

  I drove south to the scene of the abduction. But even the address was gone, obliterated by a new manmade lake surrounded by a sprawling industrial complex. It was as though the ice-cream shop had never existed.

  I continued past the Parrot Jungle, the Orchid Jungle, then west past the Metrozoo, lost in thought about McDonald, love and life,
and how brief everything can be. If life were fair, Ricky Lee Chance would be alive, a grown man now. What if the Sunshine Princess hadn’t stalled that night on the Intracoastal? What if Sunny’s parents hadn’t let the teenagers drive on ahead? What if the ice-cream store had shuttered early on Christmas Eve like most places? Minor events and seemingly insignificant decisions, weaving together to intersect life with sudden death, always haunt me.

  Because of the traffic, it took another twenty-five minutes to reach farm country. On that dark Christmas Eve fourteen years ago, the drive would have taken less time, but it still would have been an eternity in which to be terrified. With two abducted teenagers held at gunpoint in their van, the killers probably drove carefully, well within the speed limit.

  Soon I was passing rustic roadside stands offering sweet corn, eggplants, and pyramids of fat red vine-ripened tomatoes fresh off the farm.

  I finally located the right mailbox and turned onto a rutted unpaved road through the fields. The bumpy ride branched off in several places: One led to an old barn, another disappeared into vast fields, the third took me to the house.

  The roof had been repaired with mismatched shingles and the front porch sagged. A yellow and green John Deere tractor and an ancient gray Chevy pickup were parked alongside. Half a dozen empty barrels stood lined up like soldiers on the wide wraparound porch. Two dogs, a big yellow Lab and a German shepherd mix, came tearing around the side of the house barking furiously, loving the raucous sounds of their own voices, tails wagging madly. I would have stepped out, but they were young and large and they propelled themselves off the ground like missiles, hurling themselves at the side of my car, bouncing off the hood out of sheer exuberance.

  I’d decided to wait until they wore themselves out when a raspy voice began to shout. A tall figure had appeared behind the front-door screen. “Tigger! Bear! Git down! Stop it! You crazy critters! You hear me? Go lie down! Lie down!”

  They continued their assault with gleeful abandon, thudding off my car, with occasional guilty glances over their shoulders at the woman. But as she continued to shout, they slowly simmered down. Finally, they just stood panting in the heat, pink tongues lolling.