Free The Ice Maiden by Edna Buchanan Page A

to see it myself,” Lottie said. “Why didn’t you call me?”
    â€œIt’s so easy to flirt at a distance,” I said, with remorse. “But now we have a date.”
    â€œYou won’t be sorry,” she predicted. “I’d bet the Ponderosa on it.”
    The morning was already a scorcher, I discovered, standing barefoot on my front stoop. Billy Boots did figure eights around my ankles and Bitsy chased a lizard through the shrubbery as I picked up the newspaper. The protective plastic sheath slid like an oversized condom off the giant phallus upon which my liferevolved. Damn, I thought, I’ve got to swear off late-night TV.
    I settled at my kitchen table to devour the morning paper with juice and coffee. The headline over my story was huge: FIREFIGHTERS RESCUE TRAPPED TOT in 48-point Bodini. They ran Villanueva’s picture, five columns, in color. The young mother’s expression as she reached for her child was poignant and unforgettable.
    The subhead read:
    Â 
    C HEERS , T EARS E ND S IX-HOUR D RAMA
    by Ryan Battle
    N EWS S TAFF W RITER
    Â 
    I nearly spit up my orange juice. Gretchen had called my bluff. But why? She hadn’t changed the copy. The story read just the way I wrote it.
    The phone rang minutes later. “Did you see?” Lottie asked.
    â€œJust now.”
    â€œDidn’t you—?”
    â€œYes! Every word.”
    â€œThat bitch,” we chorused.
    Â 
    Irritated and dispirited, I showered and shampooed. The directions said to leave the hot oil conditioner on my hair for two minutes. I left it on for ten. Still far from perfect when I rinsed, it looked a bit better than the night before. Hopefully it would be back to normal before Dennis Fitzgerald arrived.
    Â 
    The building I was looking for was a few blocks from the ocean, light-years away from the phony glamour, glitz, and glitter of South Beach. North Beach is still real, but it won’t stay that way long if the city and the developers have their way.
    The address, a small two-story hotel, appeared to have been converted to apartments. An ornate wooden front desk, unmanned and dusty, still dominated the front lobby. Clearly, no guest had checked in for years. A worn stairway to the left led to the second floor. The hotel dining room must have been to the right originally but appeared to have been partitioned off. A door built into the partition was marked 1-A, the same apartment number Burch had given me.
    Because her parents were well off, I found it hard to believe that Sunny Hartley lived in the dining room of an old hotel in an aging North Beach neighborhood still untouched by the building boom. I knocked, then knocked again. No response. But a door slammed upstairs and a bearded man descended, his flip-flops slapping the soles of his bare feet. He wore shades and an open shirt over a pair of baggy bathing trunks and carried a beach towel and a magazine. He paused on the landing, startled to see me.
    â€œI’m looking for Sunny Hartley. Does she live here?”
    â€œYou’ve got the right place,” he said.
    â€œI guess she’s not home,” I said. “I’ll leave a note.”
    â€œYou have to knock loudly.” He tapped his ear as he reached the lobby. “She’s probably in there. She’s almost always home.”
    He left for the beach.
    I rapped louder and called, “Hello, is anyone home?”
    I sensed movement behind the peephole.
    â€œWho is it?” a woman finally asked.
    â€œBritt Montero, from the Miami News .”
    â€œI’m not interested in subscribing.”
    â€œI’m looking for Sunny Hartley. Is that you?”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œTo talk for a moment.”
    â€œReference?”
    I looked around the lobby. “A private matter.”
    â€œCan I see your identification?”
    â€œHere’s my card.” I slid it under the door. “And I can show you my press