Heart of Ice (35 page)

It was there, he was sure of it. It was there in the way Emma couldn’t bring herself to look into the camera, the way Julie couldn’t bring herself to trust anyone, even a yearbook photographer, to see what was inside her.

He slipped the copies back in the book and put his glasses away. Holding the
From Pelion
book, he got out of the car. At the top of the stone steps he paused. Four mailboxes, number three marked
E. CHARICOL
.

The front door was unlocked, so he went in. The old house had been divided into apartments, bikes crowding
the narrow hallway. He went up the stairs and stopped at number three.

Music was playing faintly inside the apartment. He knocked.

The door jerked open. A woman stared at him. “Yes?” she said sharply.

He almost said it, almost said, “Julie?”

“Emma Charicol?” he asked.

Her eyes dropped to the book tucked in his arm. “I’m sorry, but I don’t sign my books,” she said.

“I’m not here to get a book signed,” Louis said.

Something shifted in her expression, and she took a step back from the door. “What do you want?” she asked.

He wanted to know
why
. Standing here, looking at this woman, he wanted to know why the girl had done what she had done.

“My name is Louis Kincaid,” he said. He pulled out his state police ID and held it out to her. She pushed her glasses up her nose and peered at the card.

“Michigan,” she said softly, her eyes going up to his face.

“It’s been a long trip,” Louis said. “Can I come in?”

The music was still playing in the background. Through the soft murmur of Bach came the piercing whistle of a kettle.

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at Louis. “All right,” she said and opened the door wider.

She went quickly into the kitchen, and the whistling stopped. Louis took the moment to look around the room. She had the front apartment of the house and had filled it with homey old furniture and modern paintings. Bookshelves
took up every wall but one, which was given over to a picture window. There was a large oak desk in front of it, heaped with papers. But he didn’t see one personal photograph anywhere.

She came back into the room holding a tray with a pot and two cups. “I was just going to have some tea, Officer. Would you like some?” she asked. She started to use her elbow to shove aside a stack of papers on the desk, and Louis quickly moved them so she could set the tray down.

“Thank you,” she said. She hesitated, then picked up the pot. “How do you take it?”

“Just plain,” Louis said. He unzipped his jacket and sat down in a chair near the desk. As she poured the tea he took stock of her.

She was slender, though her loose blue-flowered dress hid her body. Her long hair, pulled back in a ponytail, was still black but with a faint streak of gray at one temple. There were two pencils stuck in the elastic band holding her hair. She was barefoot. Her toenails were painted light purple.

She set a china cup in front of Louis and sat down behind the desk, taking off her glasses. She folded them carefully and set them down, not looking up at Louis.

“What do I call you?” Louis asked.

“Emma,” she said. “Please.”

“You’ve been Julie to me for months now,” Louis said.

There was a flash of panic in her eyes before she looked away to the window. As the light caught her face full-force, he tried to see Maisey in her, but there was nothing of the housekeeper in her features. He saw, instead, Edward and his melancholy, the kind that grew in people when they
realized their lives had not been as well lived as they might have been.

She rose abruptly and walked away, pausing in the center of the room with her back to him. Louis thought back to his last talk with Maisey, how she had gone to the edge but he had let her slip back. He had come too far to let the same thing happen now with Julie.

“I’ve brought you something,” he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ceramic horse. He set it on the table, but it took her a few moments to turn.

When she saw the horse, her eyes widened. She came forward slowly, her eyes never leaving the horse. She reached out to pick it up but then drew her hand back.

She looked up at Louis. “How did you find me?” she asked softly.

Louis set the
From Pelion
book on the desk, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out the red journal, the one from the last summer on the island. He held it out to her.

She drew a deep breath and took it, running her fingers lightly over the scuffed leather surface.

“There’s a poem in the journal called ‘Twelve,’ ” Louis said. “There’s another poem called ‘Seventeen’ in your book
From Pelion
. I think the same person wrote both of them.”

She opened the journal, slowly turning the pages. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

“I found it in the island cottage.”

“You just
found
it,” she said softly.

“Maisey gave it to me,” Louis said.

She sat down at the desk, her eyes brimming. She
wiped a hand across her face. “After it happened I wasn’t going to contact anyone,” she said.

“What changed your mind?” Louis asked when she didn’t go on.

“I read my death announcement in the paper,” she said. She hesitated, then began to search for something among the stacks of papers on her desk. Finally she pulled out a newspaper and set it in front of Louis. It was the
Birmingham-Bloomfield Eccentric.

“I subscribed to it after I moved here to Berkeley,” she said. “I don’t know why. Maybe I needed a connection.”

“So you know about the bones being found?”

She nodded. “When I read about it, it was almost a relief. Julie has been a ghost in my house and after that it was like I could finally bury her.”

He almost said what he was thinking—what about Rhonda’s ghost? Where was the sympathy for her?

“Do you know about your father?” he asked.

She nodded, looking away and blinking back tears. For a long time the only sound was the Bach playing in the background.

“She’s not in any danger, is she?” she said. “I mean because of me.”

It took Louis a moment to realize she was asking about Maisey. Depending on what Maisey knew, she could face charges for aiding a fugitive or even as an accessory to murder after the fact.

“I can’t tell you anything about that,” Louis said.

“Maisey didn’t know anything,” she said. “She didn’t know anything about what happened and she doesn’t know where I am.”

“But she knows you’re alive,” Louis said.

She nodded. “After I read the death announcement I knew I had to make contact with her somehow. My first book had just come out, so I sent it to her hoping she would know it was me. After I sent her the second book I got a letter. It was addressed to my publisher, and they forwarded it to me. It was from Maisey. All it said was—”

“I think we should stop talking about this now,” Louis said. “I am not a police officer, but I’m acting as an agent for the state police and anything you say to me I can testify to.”

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. She picked up her teacup and took a sip. When she set the cup back down in the saucer her hand was trembling.

“How is she?” she asked. “Can you at least tell me that?”

“Maisey is fine,” Louis said. “Your father left her the cottage.”

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles, but her eyes had a faraway look.

Louis picked up the journal and put it back inside his jacket. “I’d like you to come back to Michigan with me,” he said.

Her eyes shot up to his. She was frozen in the chair, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. “I can’t . . .” she said.

Louis wasn’t certain what he felt for her. Sorrow for the little girl who had been dragged into the dark, sympathy for the teenager who had tried to find her way back to the light. But what about the person who had allowed her family to mourn a ghost? What about the person who had
taken another girl’s life and coldly disappeared? Someone had to answer for that.

“It will be better for everyone if you just tell the truth,” Louis said.

“There’s no one left,” she said.

“It will be better for you,” Louis said.

“I’m gone,” she said. “Julie’s gone.”

She rose and walked away, going to the stereo and turning off the music.

“Cooper Lange is in custody,” he said.

She turned. “What?”

“Cooper Lange has been arrested, and the police believe he killed Rhonda Grasso.”

“He didn’t do it,” she said.

“Miss Chapman—”

“Charicol. Emma Charicol,” she said.

Louis rose. “You’re the only one who knows what really happened in that lodge twenty-one years ago. That means you’re the only one who can help him.”

It was a bluff, but he had to play it. He had no authority to arrest her, but she didn’t know that. She also didn’t know that Cooper Lange would never be charged in Rhonda’s murder. But right now Cooper wasn’t the one who needed her to come back to the island. Rafsky was.

“Whoever comes here the next time will come with handcuffs,” Louis said.

She covered her face with her hands. He thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She let her hands fall and her body seemed to cave in on itself.

“When do we have to go?” she asked softly.

“Tonight. There’s a flight back at ten thirty.”

She didn’t move. “Can I? . . . I need to pack a bag.”

Louis nodded.

Still she didn’t move. She looked around the apartment, then back at Louis. “What do I bring? I don’t even have a pair of boots. I don’t . . .”

Her voice trailed off. She turned slowly and went into the bedroom. Louis went to the window. The fog had lifted. Just over the tops of the trees he could make out the sliver of silver that was the San Francisco skyline.

Several minutes later she emerged, dressed in a sweater, slacks, and raincoat. She was carrying a small suitcase and a brown bundle. She set the suitcase on the floor and opened it.

Louis watched as she carefully set the tattered sock monkey in the suitcase. She started to zip the case, then hesitated and went to the desk. She picked up the ceramic horse.

“Cooper gave me this,” she said. “I lost it a long time ago. Where did you find it?”

“Your bedroom.”

When she frowned, he added, “The little room at the end of the hall.”

“Oh,” she said. “That wasn’t really my bedroom. I only slept there. It was the only room with a lock on it.”

She looked at him. “Can I keep this?”

He nodded.

She knelt and put the horse in her suitcase. When she stood up and looked at Louis her gaze was steady.

“I’m not a monster,” she said softly.

“I know,” Louis said.

L
ouis didn’t understand why she had brought it with her. But now, as he watched Julie Chapman holding the sock monkey, he knew.

Twenty-one years ago, Julie had taken the stuffed animal with her because she knew she was never going back to Michigan. And she had brought it with her now because she believed she would never return to her life in California.

On the red-eye flight from the West Coast she had asked a few questions about Maisey, her father, and Cooper, but Louis told her the answers had to wait. The first thing Rafsky had said after Louis called him from the San Francisco airport was that he was not to tell her anything. The second thing was that they had to keep this as quiet as possible.

The name on her Delta ticket was Emma Charicol. The woman who boarded the ferry was just another faceless visitor.

Once they reached the island, the plan was to question her. But after that it was up to the district attorney. Depending on what she said happened in the basement of the lodge in conjunction with the evidence they had, the DA could charge her with anything from murder to flight from prosecution.

Louis glanced over at her. She was sitting at the window of the ferry, staring out at the lake with its crags of ice. She had managed to sleep some on the long flight, but she looked exhausted, the dull afternoon sun bringing every line of her face into high relief.

The ferry was moving slowly, staying in the narrow channel carved by the coast guard icebreaker. When it made its final turn around the lighthouse, she sat up straighter.

The island came into view, a white and dark green mass pinpricked with a few faint yellow lights, the outlines of the fort and Grand Hotel visible on the bluffs.

She was motionless, her hands pressed against the window. He wondered if she could see the single light there below the dark hotel.

They were the only people who got off the ferry. She stood on the dock shivering in her raincoat, looking as if she expected someone.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell anyone we were coming. We’ll have to walk,” Louis said.

“How far is the police station?” she asked.

“We’re not going there,” he said. “We’re going to the cottage.”

“The cottage? Why?”

“We have to take your statement and we thought it was best if no one saw you yet.”

If she thought this was strange she said nothing. She just turned up her coat collar and let Louis pick up her bag. They walked through the deserted snowy streets, heading uphill away from town. She was silent, her head hunched into her coat, her hands thrust into her pockets.
After a few minutes Louis stopped her and gave her his gloves.

They didn’t stop until they reached the twin stone pillars that marked the entrance to West Bluff Road.

At the end of the street a lone yellow light beckoned. She stopped again when they reached the cottage. She stood staring up at it for a long time.

There was another reason, beyond secrecy, to bring her to the cottage for questioning. Rafsky wanted to surround her with reminders of her life here and what she had done, hoping it would help shatter her defenses.

Louis wondered if it was the right thing to do, to submerge this fragile woman into a sea of painful memories to force a confession. But he had to remind himself that there was still a victim here—Rhonda Grasso. And sadly, she was the kind of victim, unlike Julie Chapman, who could be easily dismissed.