Free The Ice Maiden by Edna Buchanan Page B

ID.”
    I waited, fanning myself with my notebook, my hair damp with perspiration.
    â€œDid you find my card?” I called eventually.
    I heard the metallic sounds of a chain lock disengage. The door inched open. I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not the woman who stood there.
    It was difficult to determine what she looked like. All I could see was her red nose and cheeks, as though painted by Jack Frost himself. She wore a ski cap with woolen ear warmers, goggles, a fleece headband, thermal gloves, an insulated snowmobile suit, and fleece-lined boots. She looked as though she were about to scale Mount Everest. But this was Miami Beach, where the temperature was 96 in the shade. Furthermore, she held a knife in her gloved hand. Light glinted off its odd blade, curved in the shape of a half moon.
    â€œI guess you’re on your way out,” I said stupidly, reacting to her attire. I tried to appear friendly, one eye on the blade. Why is it that whenever I think I have met every possible sort of Miami Beach screwball, eccentric, and mental patient, a new variety turns up?
    â€œNo, of course not.” She reacted as though I was crazy, then took off her goggles and gestured with them. “Come in,” she said.
    I stepped inside, cautiously. There was little furniture in what once had been a large high-ceilinged dining room. Bright light poured through big picture windows designed to overlook a tropical garden that had withered long ago, falling to the ravages of wind, weather, and neglect. Its centerpiece, once a sparkling art deco fountain, stood chipped and dry, the rusty piping corroded and exposed. The view now consisted of passing traffic, a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet, and an Amoco service station across the street.
    The big windows were tinted so no one could see into the huge space, which had been converted into a studio. Dining tables set with crisp linen, silver, and fine china had been replaced with well-braced wooden work tables constructed of sturdy six-by-sixes stacked up like log cabin walls. Tools and sharp blades of various sizes were arranged on smaller tables. There were stone shapes and figures of polished marble, some sheet-covered, along with an air hammer and a compressor motor mounted on a tank with air hoses snaking out.
    â€œI’m a reporter,” I began. “I cover the police beat for the News .”
    Something flickered for a millisecond in the cold depths of her eyes.
    I could see her better in the studio’s natural light. Her pale eyebrows and lashes, nearly invisible without makeup, made her deep-blue eyes look even more intense. Her hair, straight and pale blond, hung down beneath her cap in a single thick braid that reached nearly to her waist.
    â€œA thief named Coney was killed breaking into a downtown shop. You may have seen or heard about it on the news.”
    She shook her head, her expression distant. “I don’t watch much television news or read the paper. I’m too busy.”
    â€œHe was thirty-one years old, a criminal, with terrible scars on his body from old burns.”
    She paused. “I have to get back to work,” she said, and turned abruptly, face unchanged.
    She stepped briskly through double doors into what had been the hotel kitchen. I followed. The doors were framed with an overhead hoist, like a giant IV with chains. Huge ovens, stoves, a grill, and double sinks stood to the left. A pop-up toaster, a blender, and a small microwave oven appeared oddly out of place among the culinary relics. An open pantry at the far end of the kitchen had been converted to personal living space. An alcove where rows of shelves once held food supplies or kitchenware was now lined with books and potted plants. A small four-drawer dresser and a chifforobe flanked a daybed with a crocheted coverlet. A canvas smock, a green rubber face mask, a hat, and a heavy leather apron hung from an old-fashioned brass