P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

Louis took out the two Xeroxes he had used as a bookmark. He had stopped at the library in San Francisco to find whatever he could on Emma Charicol. The first copy was from a reference book published by the Academy of American Poets that listed the same bio as her book jacket with one new piece of information, that Emma Charicol was thirty-eight, the same age Julie would be now.

Louis put on his glasses and unfolded the second Xerox. It was a short article from the San Francisco Chronicle, coverage of a benefit for the Lyrics and Odes Reading Series. But it was the black-and-white photo that had given him the confidence to come to this house in the Berkeley hills. The photograph showed four people holding wineglasses, the lone unsmiling woman identified as Emma Charicol. He had stared long and hard at the picture, looking for the somber girl in the Kingswood yearbook.

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-”