The Ice Maiden (11 page)

“Well, you're here now,” I said quietly. “I'm sure your parents appreciate that.”

“Yeah, and you show up, writing a story to bring it all up again. Sunny-Sunny-Sunny.”

He practically dashed away from me, fumbled with his keys, finally got the front door open, then slammed it behind him.

The AAA truck came twenty minutes later. Why wasn't I surprised when the driver said my tire could not be repaired because the sidewall had been deliberately filleted with a razor-sharp object?

I cursed Tyler's name all the way back to Miami and police headquarters. The poor little rich kid who'd clutched the keys to a $60,000 luxury car, while whining he'd been ignored, neglected, and forgotten, had definitely lost my sympathy. Instead, I worried about how to finagle the price of a new tire onto my expense account.

At PIO, I cheerfully signed a release absolving the city of all liability should I be crippled, killed, or maimed while accompanying or observing police officers on the job.

Escorted up to the Cold Case office, I waved merrily to K. C. Riley as I passed her cage, ignoring the sharp little stabs of jealousy. Craig Burch was at his desk.

“I'm working on this story full time!” I told him.

He failed to share my excitement but showed considerably more interest when I described my visit to the Hartleys and my encounter with Tyler.

He frowned. “You sure the kid did it?”

“My car was in their driveway, in a gated community with security patrols, no street crime, no graffiti, and no vandals, unless some wealthy scion decides to slash tires after a bad round of golf at the country club. Was Tyler always such a nasty son-of-a-bitch?”

Burch shrugged. “He was a little kid, out of the loop. I don't remember much about him.”

“That seems to be his gripe.”

“Surprised he still lives at home,” Burch said mildly. “Guys his age usually can't wait to strike out on their own.”

“I gather he's still dependent on Daddy Warbucks.”

The detective looked preoccupied. “How's the mother, Maureen?” he asked.

“Classy,” I said. “Blond and beautiful. Her husband still practices. Apparently he's put out because Sunny wants to succeed on her own. Looks like they don't have much contact with her—or influence.”

“Good for her,” he murmured.

“But not for you if you want her cooperation.”

 

My next stop was Sunny's studio. I was prepared for freezing temperatures this time. I'd dug out an old down parka, a red wool muffler, and a pair of fuzzy moth-eaten earmuffs, packed away since my college days in Chicago. I put them all on in the lobby. It was deserted, as usual, but the decibel level broke the local sound ordinance. Upstairs, somebody played jazz riffs
on the saxophone. Downstairs, a demolition crew was apparently dismantling Sunny's apartment. The noise reminded me of the machinery that had hammered through coral rock to free little Justin from the well.

I pounded and kicked and bellowed like a banshee, until the air hammer or whatever it was finally stopped.

“It's me, Britt!” I cried, several times.

Expecting Sunny to be in Sherpa togs, I was startled by the person who opened the door.

Perhaps it was the green rubber face mask or the snout, a filter cartridge, that protruded from its center. Her huge round plastic safety goggles resembled alien eyes. Her hair was hidden by a scarf, then covered by a hat. A sturdy work glove exposed the fingertips of one hand. She wore a thick wrist support on the other, which, again, held something sharp and shiny. Overalls and a leather apron completed her ensemble. A thick chalk-colored dust storm swirled in the room behind her. We stared at each other.

“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 musi
cian 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 nodded, imagining how exciting it must have been.

She paused, her soft smile fading into a somber ex
pression. “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.