Murder on Capitol Hill

It was his favorite tool. It weighed more than a pound. Most of the weight was in an elaborately carved ivory handle. Its blade was six inches from the butt of its handle to its sharp tip. He'd taken steel wool to it only the day before. He often did that with the tools of his profession. He took pride in them, considered them surgical instruments. He knew that without them, he could not be the best in his profession. He stepped back and surveyed his work, his favorite ice pick in his large, beefy hand. He was not what most people would envision a sculptor to be. There was nothing artistic about him. He was broad and lumpy and very Scandinavian-looking. His large head was bald, with the exception of a soft fringe of blond and gray hair over his ears and an unruly tuft of it spiraling up from the center of his dome. Just a little more, he told himself as he stepped forward, weighed the ice pick in his hand, then chipped away on the right side of the work. As long as he'd been sculpturing ice he'd never gotten over the joy of feeling the pick ram home at precisely the right spot. He could sever a block of ice in seconds with the pick or, as was now called for, could gently and deftly shape a corner, deepen relief on an ice portrait, turn frozen water into whatever he wished. Again, a step back to gain perspective. Good, he told himself. Just one more spot. "Looks good," an employee of the restaurant said from behind him. The voice distracted him. He jerked his head and felt the point of the pick break through the skin on his left thumb. "Damn it," he said as he looked at his hand. It wasn't much of a wound, just a small hole in the skin from which a tiny bubble of blood welled up. "I'm sorry," said the restaurant worker. The ice sculptor laughed and shook his head. "I haven't stabbed myself in years." He placed the pick on the table. His own blood was on its tip. "I'm done anyway," he said as he sucked blood from his finger into his mouth and packed up a black bag in which he carried the tools of his trade. "Like a surgeon's bag," he often said about it. He took one final look at his work, then turned and walked from the large banquet room. "He forgot his pick," the restaurant worker mumbled to a coworker who'd just come from the kitchen. "No wonder. He stabbed himself." The other young man looked down at the pick and said, smiling, "It's a good thing he didn't stab himself in the wrong place. That thing could kill you." 2 Senator Cale Caldwell entered the Senate Dining Room at precisely twelve noon. He liked being early for lunch because it meant that his favored table, in a far and secluded corner and affording a view of everyone who came and went, would be available. He could have demanded that the table be set aside for him no matter what hour he arrived, just as others did, but never had, which endeared him to the dining room's staff and management. Not that Cale Caldwell was without appreciation for the perks that accompanied his position as Senate Majority Leader and chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee. He enjoyed them along with the rest of his colleagues. It was just that he liked being liked by those who served him, especially in restaurants, which, he sometimes speculated, probably resulted from having waited tables to help put himself through the University of Virginia Law School. "Senator Caldwell," the assistant restaurant manager said, "you're looking splendid today." "Thank you, Charles, I feel splendid. But then again, I always do once the first fall snap hits. What's for lunch?" "Vermont Day, senator." "Really? Do I have to have pancakes and maple syrup?" Charles laughed. "Of course not, senator." He consulted the menu heTruman, Margaret is the author of 'Murder on Capitol Hill' with ISBN 9780345443809 and ISBN 0345443802.