The Ice Maiden

by Edna Buchanan

  “Oh, no.” She looked startled. “I couldn’t. After it happened, I couldn’t see a child without seeing my son.

  “I couldn’t even deal with Sunny, the girl with Ricky that night. She survived, you know. Of course my heart ached for her, but at times I wanted to wring her neck. I wanted her to remember those faces, to help the police more. God forgive me, but at times I hated her and her parents. She was alive; Ricky wasn’t. She had her life. They had her. They even had young Tyler, but we were left with nothing. Ricky was our only child.”

  Her eyes drifted to his framed photo.

  “Of course,” she said, refocusing on me, “I found other reasons to resent her. I wondered why Ricky was with Sunny, when there were so many girls in the world. He could have dated anyone. If he hadn’t singled her out, he never would have been at that place, at that moment in time. I’d wonder whose idea it was to stop at that ice-cream shop. Hers? She was probably what attracted them. She stood out, with that blond hair…. If only Ricky had taken her straight home…I blamed myself as well. They were too young to date. Why did I permit it? If only I’d insisted that Ricky stay home with us that night.”

  “It’s natural,” I said. “What if? If only. When bad things happen we all think that way. It’s understandable.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. I learned later that a lot of survivors go through that sort of thinking. I guess it seems almost trivial now, with all the people in New York who didn’t even find bodies to bury. At least we had that, a decent funeral, the chance to see him, touch him one last time.

  “I wanted desperately to talk to Sunny but hardly ever saw her after she was released from the hospital. I’m sure she was avoiding me too, afraid to face me. Sean insisted we sell the house and move. I was sorry I agreed. I cried for weeks after. I never wanted to leave the place where Ricky took his first step, had his first Christmas, got his first puppy. All those happy times. His basketball hoop was still mounted on the front of the garage when we followed the moving van out of the driveway. Sean was sure the move would help, but it only made the loss worse. I used to drive back to our old house all the time. The new owners must have thought I was stalking them. I got hysterical when I saw they’d cut down the tree where Ricky had his tree house. He and his dad built it when he was eight.”

  “So you moved here?”

  She shook her head. “We moved to a Brickell Avenue condominium. It was big and cold, like a mausoleum, the people there all tucked away like corpses. I thought that every time I walked down the hall. How do you compare that to a home with character, memories, and living reminders?

  “I was devastated. You can imagine the sort of companion I was to Sean.” Her smile was sad. “He finally announced one day that we were still young enough to have another child. ‘You can’t grieve forever,’ he said. ‘We have to go on with our lives.’ He couldn’t understand why I recoiled at the thought. He didn’t carry our son for nine months, didn’t give birth to him. After raising a wonderful boy and losing him after seventeen years, how could I do it again? How would I ever let another child out of my sight?

  “That’s when Sean stopped attending meetings.”

  “Meetings?”

  “The Parents of Murdered Children. I couldn’t give it up. I was president of our chapter for three years. I still attend regularly. They’re the only other people who understand what it’s like, the only people I feel really comfortable with. Everywhere else, people start to talk about their children, then they ask about yours….” Her voice trailed off.

  “When did you leave the place on Brickell?”

  “We lived there for less than three years, though it seemed much longer.”

  “And then?”

  “We divorced,” she said simply.

  That explained it; the chinoiserie wall covering, the gilt wood stool, the floral fabrics. Exquisite but strictly feminine, the apartment had no trace of a masculine presence.

  “I got my real estate license. I specialize in waterfront property, mostly in Golden Beach. I’ve been doing really well, a member of the million-dollar club.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “But I didn’t know you two were divorced. I’m sorry.”

  Her right thumb and index finger massaged the naked left ring finger where she’d once worn a wedding band. “We were childhood sweethearts,” she said. “Married for twenty years, happy, content with our lives—it all changed in one night.”

  “Do you and Sean stay in touch; do you still see each other?” I asked hopefully. “Maybe you’ll eventually…”

  “How romantic. It must be nice to still think like that,” she said wistfully. “He remarried less than six months later. She’s younger. I hear they have three small children, a big house in Pinecrest. I haven’t seen Sean in years.”

  “And are you…seeing someone?” One of the perks of being a reporter is that you get to ask questions other people are too polite or too embarrassed to ask.

  “I haven’t even dated,” she said, “except for a man in my parents group, and he was more screwed up than I am. I’ve learned that sudden death is easy; what’s difficult is going on with life. Work helped me immensely. It still does. Real estate is demanding, extremely detail-oriented, and incredibly satisfying when you manage to match the right family to the right house, a home where they can be happy.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you came here. It would be my dream come true if Ricky’s case could be resolved. I think about them out there somewhere, enjoying their lives, hurting other people. I would do anything to see them brought to justice. Please tell Detective Burch not to be afraid to call me. I promise not to make a pest of myself this time.”

  Smiling, she thanked me again for coming. I paused outside after she closed the door and listened to the silence in the rooms behind me.

  She was right, I thought, driving back to the paper. Ricky, gone in an instant in a blinding burst of gunfire, was technically the victim. But it was his mother’s life that had been left vastly diminished. It was she who experienced the loss and the sadness. The mother, not the boy, was left to dwell on his promise, his unfulfilled dreams, his lost future. The killers had left her impoverished and suffering, robbed forever of the son who had enhanced her life.

  The newsroom was oddly quiet as I walked in. Reporters and editors had gathered in small knots, faces grave.

  Another budget cutback? I wondered.

  Lottie bustled down the hall from photo. “Britt,” she said, out of breath. “Did you see the ambulance leave?”

  “No,” I said, heart sinking.

  “Ryan,” she said. “Said he felt like shit, stood up to go home, and just hit the floor, passed out cold.”

  The desk directly behind mine was empty, the chair pushed back, his SAVE THE WHALES coffee mug still half full.

  “Ryan?” I frowned. This had to be a joke. “It can’t be. What happened? Is he in love again? Did Gretchen give him another cockamamie assignment?”

  “Britt, he looked terrible.” Her honest brown eyes were so concerned that I felt ashamed.

  “He’s probably all right,” I assured her, trying to convince myself. “You know how he’s been complaining lately. He’s such a hypochondriac. Men are such babies. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

  “They took him out on a gurney,” she said gravely.

  “Where?”

  “The ER at County. Gretchen went in the ambulance with him.”

  “Jeez, that would be like waking up to see Satan at your bedside. Poor Ryan. Wish I’d been here,” I said. “I could’ve gone with him or at least followed, to drive him home later.”

  Nobody had left the newsroom feet first since the garden editor’s nervous breakdown. She had to be restrained; her screams echoed down the hall. She never came back. She sued, instead, for disability benefits, citing job-related stress due to deadline pressures—and won. Reporters would hoot in derision at mere mention of her name. The woman had never had to s
urvive riot-torn streets, see gunshot victims up close, or be threatened with arrest. Unlike our multiple daily deadlines, hers was once a week, for chatty Sunday features on mulching, organic gardening, and topics no more controversial than how to repot a poinsettia.

  What was this with Ryan?

  Lottie and I headed for coffee in the cafeteria where I filled her in on what I’d been working on—and Fitzgerald’s visit.

  “The Gay and Lesbian Film Festival?” She winced. “The poor guy must have whiplash. At least it ended happily,” she said, with a wink.

  “But it shouldn’t have.”

  “Why not? My inquiring mind wants to know. A romantic lunch, a romantic evening—”

  “And the next thing you know, your socks are off,” I said. “But he’s the wrong one, Lottie.”

  “Men do that all the time. It don’t matter to them if it’s the right one, long as it’s somebody warm and willing.”

  “Sure, but we’re supposed to be better than they are.”

  “Well, I may have eyes for Prince William, but I don’t aim to stay single and celibate till he comes to his senses and breaks down my door.”

  Back at my desk, I found a message to call Dr. Donald Hartley. His nurse put me right through. He thanked me for returning his call. “I heard the disturbing news,” he said gravely.

  “Which disturbing news?” I asked, my mind racing through the short list: K. C. Riley, Ryan, my unfortunate love life?

  He paused. “Is that question a sign that you’re not having a good week?”

  I had to smile. “Just the usual. It seems I always have more than enough disturbing news to go around.”

  He chuckled, a warm charismatic sound. “I’m referring to the tire on your automobile. Maureen and I heard belatedly that you found it necessary to call a tow truck. I only wish I’d been there to help or that Tyler had been of more assistance. Sometimes he can be quite thoughtless.”

  “No problem,” I said. “He had his own car trouble.” What could I say? The truth? That his seed had produced a perverse and deranged vandal? “It’s okay, Dr. Hartley.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said kindly. “And please call me Donald. I had my office manager contact the Goodyear store near your newspaper office and arrange for new tires to be put on your car. No charge to you. It’s the least I can do after you drove all the way up to see us.”

  “That’s so nice!” I said, adding that I could not possibly accept. He insisted.

  So did I. “It’s against newspaper policy,” I finally explained. “Reporters are not permitted to accept anything that we can’t eat or drink in one sitting. It’s an ethical thing. Tires are definitely out, but I appreciate the gesture.”

  “Is there any other way I can help you?”

  “No,” I said. “I saw Heather Chance. She’s in real estate now, doing very well. She and her husband are divorced.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounded genuinely saddened.

  “Otherwise, things are moving along. I’ll keep you posted,” I promised.

  Sunny must be crazy, I thought.

  I called the hospital, but Ryan was still in the ER. Another call caught me about to leave the office.

  The breathy voice, uncertain and hesitant, was almost a whisper.

  “This is Britt. Who is this?”

  “Somebody you wanted to talk to.”

  I nearly blurted her name, but she sounded so guarded, I bit my tongue. “Right,” I said. “We met the other night at—”

  “At Andre’s viewing.”

  “I’m so glad you called,” I said. “Can I come by your place to talk?”

  “No way,” she said quickly.

  “How about here, at the paper?”

  “No, I don’t wanna come there.”

  “Well, where are you now? We can meet someplace.”

  “I was going over to the Kmart,” she said softly, as though she was not alone, “to get some things for my kids.”

  “The one on the Boulevard?”

  “Yeah, next door to Busy Bee Car Wash.”

  “Where? It’s a big store.”

  “The garden department? In the back, at the opposite end to the registers. In half an hour?”

  “See you there.”

  13

  Shelby Fountain stood in the back of the screened-in garden center, nearly obscured beneath the hanging baskets of spider plants and butterfly orchids, surrounded by spindly young palms, staked hibiscus bushes, and bougainvillea overflowing huge pots.

  We rendezvoused in a shaded, shadowy corner permeated by the wet earthy smells of potting soil, wood chips, and living things, out of sight of the cash register lane, obscured from customers browsing the flats of bright blooming flowers on sale up in front.

  She had a box of disposable diapers in her shopping cart, along with two small pink periwinkles in four-inch pots.

  She greeted me with “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Why not? My impression was that you might want to talk about it.”

  She shrugged uncomfortably, in obvious distress. “They may not be the best family, but they’re my family. If they knew I spoke to you…” She paused. “They can’t know I said anything.”

  “I understand.”

  “I care about them,” she said. “but I also have Jesus Christ in my heart and what you said the other night, about the people who got hurt—well, I know that’s true.”

  “On Christmas Eve, fourteen years ago,” I said, “a teenage couple was abducted.”

  She nodded slowly as I spoke. “I remember. I remember that night.” She spoke softly as the arching fronds of a multi-trunked areca palm created dappled shadows on her face. “I was eleven. My brother had just come home from juvenile detention two days before. They let him out for Christmas. They told him to stay away from those boys he always got in trouble with, but first thing he did was hook up with them again. They went out that night, Christmas Eve.

  “They left big and bold, like they was up to no good. Came back late, agitated and worked up, whispering among themselves.”

  “Did they say where they had been?”

  “Not to me. But Mad Dog had blood on his clothes. And they had a gun.”

  Her gently spoken words raised goose bumps on my arms.

  “Mad Dog used to scare me. I didn’t like being in the house alone with him or his friends. They’d tease me and…my brother was always trying to put his hands on me. I used to lock myself in my room with my little sisters. I took care of them.”

  “Where were your parents?”

  “My daddy ran off after my baby sister was born. My mama worked and had a boyfriend. She wasn’t home a lot.”

  “What happened that night?”

  “Mama had Christmas presents on layaway up at Sears, and I was waiting for her to bring them home so we could wrap them and put them under the tree. But the lady she worked for was having a party that night, and Mama had to stay to help clean up. She still wasn’t home when the boys came back. I was there by myself, baby-sitting my two little sisters. They were ’bout four and six then.

  “Andre was real upset. They was all scared and excited. They didn’t want me hearing what they was talking about. Mad Dog told me to get out of the room.”

  “Who were they, exactly?” I counted them on my fingers. “Your brother, his cousin Stony, Andre Coney, and Cubby Wells. There was one more, a fifth boy. Who was he?”

  She stared, expression thoughtful, as though she didn’t know whether to believe me. “You don’t know who the other guy was?”

  “No, should I?”

  “I thought you did, I thought that was one of the reasons you were here,” Shelby said, her face pinched with apprehension.

  “No. Why? Who is he?”

  “If you don’t know,” she said evasively, “I’m not going to be the one to say his name.”

  Fearing she would shut down completely, I changed the subject.

  “What were they driving that nig
ht?”

  “Had a white van. I never saw it before. Musta had a stolen tag. I remember Andre was out in the alley changing the license plate before they left. I knew they was up to no good. Later he said he had to take it back where he got it. I never saw that van again.

  “Mad Dog changed clothes, then tol’ me to wash his bloody shirt and pants. Warned me not to say anything to Mama about it. I did what he said.” She winced, as though stabbed by a sudden pain. “I guess that makes me an accomplice to whatever they did.”

  “No way,” I said. “You were eleven years old, for heaven’s sake, intimidated, scared, taking care of your little sisters on Christmas Eve. You did nothing wrong.”

  She fingered the cross hanging from a silver chain around her neck. “But I lied,” she whispered, “and I stole.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She chewed her lower lip and didn’t answer.

  “When did you see the gun?”

  “They was hiding something from me before they left. But I knew what it was. I heard them talking. Andre took it in a burglary. Took it from a house up in Miami Shores a few days before Mad Dog come home from Youth Hall.”

  “Did you ever get a good look at it? Could you describe it?”

  She smiled, as though embarrassed. “Oh, I got a real good look at it. Real good. Was a revolver type, shiny, chrome. Not too big, but not real small neither.”

  The way she said it prompted me to ask, “How did you manage to get such a good look at it?”

  “’Cause I stole it.”

  “When? Why?”

  She sighed. “When they went out again, to take the van back, they didn’t take the gun with them. I don’t know why, maybe in case they got stopped. I knew they’d done something bad. I didn’t want to see Christmas get ruined for the little ones again,” she said earnestly. “I was tired. I just didn’t want any more trouble. My mama’s boyfriend was coming over for Christmas Day. Mad Dog never got along with him. They’d got into fistfights before; once they broke the coffee table. Me and the kids was all screaming. I was afraid…. I didn’t want any gun in the house. I was tired of trouble. After they left, I went into his room and found it, wrapped in a T-shirt, shoved under the mattress.”