ICED

“What is it?” Jane asked. “A rock?”

Wordlessly, Stanley approached the shape, knelt down, and brushed away some of the snow. To Jane’s surprise, a bit of bright red was revealed. She frowned, puzzled, and went closer.

Stanley, intent on what he was doing, brushed away more snow. Suddenly Ivy’s face was looking out at them, her blue eyes open, staring, her cheeks bright red.

“Oh, my God,” Jane gasped, and grabbed Stanley. “It’s Ivy. Is she . . .”

“Dead.” Stanley nodded.

Jane began to cry. “This is horrible. Poor Ivy.”

Stanley was brushing away more snow. He stood, turned, and took Jane in his arms.

“She must have come down the trail for some reason and not realized she’d reached the pond and fallen,” Jane said. “She must have hit her head on the ice.”

“Jane, Ivy’s death was no accident. I’m sorry, I don’t want to have to tell you this, but you might as well know now. She’s been stabbed.”

Jane drew in her breath. “Stabbed?”

He nodded. “With a small, sharp instrument. If I’m not mistaken, an ice pick . . .”