Murder Packs a Suitcase

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I’ll take the bloody bucket over the tiny post office any day,” Wade said. “It’s not that strange a concept, given how high Florida real estate prices are these days.” He leaned across the table and, in a voice soft enough that no one else could hear, asked Mallory, “Speaking of horror stories, how are you holding up after last night?”

  “Fine.” She forced a smile. “At least, as well as can be expected.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “The whole situation is horrendous. What you need is to get away from all this.”

  “Away from the hotel—or away from the company I’ve been keeping?”

  “Both. In fact, I’m starting to feel as if I need to get away myself.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed. That was the very conclusion she’d come up with herself after spending a sleepless night in her huge, king-size bed. She’d scarcely been able to believe the contrast between her arrival at the hotel, which had seemed like the beginning of an exciting adventure, and how she felt about being in Florida now that she was considered a suspect in the murder of a man she barely knew.

  “Then how about having dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “It’ll be good for both of us. Not to mention a lot of fun.”

  Mallory froze. Dinner? she thought, her mind racing. As in a date?

  She told herself she must have misunderstood. That she was reading way too much into Wade’s casual suggestion that two journalists who were far from home—and suddenly found themselves in the midst of a murder investigation—grab a bite to eat someplace other than the hotel that had begun to feel confining to them both.

  Then again, it certainly sounded as if he’d just asked her out on a date.

  Yet Mallory and date struck her as two words that definitely did not belong in the same sentence. After all, decades had passed since she’d thought about herself that way—that way meaning someone who could ever be considered even remotely attractive to a member of the opposite sex.

  Much less someone who went out on dates.

  Which is why she was absolutely dumbstruck when she heard a voice that sounded very much like hers saying, “Sure. Dinner sounds great.”

  A wave of relief suddenly rushed over her as she remembered she had a perfectly valid excuse not to follow through on the plan she’d just made so cavalierly.

  “Wait—I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, Wade. I totally forgot that I already have plans for tonight.”

  Wade looked crestfallen. “Don’t tell me I have competition.”

  “As a matter of fact, you do,” she replied, considerably more relaxed now that she knew she wouldn’t actually have to go through with something as nerve-wracking as a date. “Some handsome, swarthy men who can really impress a girl by swinging from the mast of a schooner and…and showering her with gifts of gold dubloons.”

  Wade blinked. “You’re having dinner with pirates?”

  Mallory laughed. “Courtney even got them to comp me. See that? They’re not nearly as bad as most people think. Besides, they love to have a good time, especially if rum is involved.”

  Wade looked amused. “I had no idea you were such a party animal.”

  “I can be,” she assured him, cocking her head to one side. “In fact, maybe I should be wearing Frieda’s T-shirt instead of her.”

  She suddenly clamped her mouth shut. I’m flirting! she thought, alarmed. I’m one step away from batting my eyelashes at this guy. I’ve been away from home a little more than twenty-four hours and I’m already turning into Betty Boop!

  Folding her hands primly in her lap, she said, “What I mean is, I’m supposed to go to the Pirates Adventure theme dinner tonight. I’m hoping to include it in my article.”

  He leaned even closer, as if he was about to share a secret. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “but back home in Toronto, I’m considered quite the swashbuckler. How about some company when that pirate ship of yours sails tonight?”

  She cast him a surprised look. “You mean you’d actually come along to something like that?”

  “Sure. It sounds like fun. Besides, you’d be there, right?”

  Mallory could feel her cheeks growing warm as she said, “Okay. I’ll ask Courtney if she can get a second voucher.”

  “Shiver me timbers,” Wade said with a grin. “I’ve got me a dinner date.”

  “I need a drink,” Frieda announced after Wade, Annabelle, and finally Desmond had excused themselves one by one, each claiming to have something to rush off to.

  Mallory, who had remained at the table to finish her second cup of coffee, gave a startled laugh. “Don’t we all.”

  “Just a little something to take the edge off,” Frieda said earnestly. “Care to join me at the Bora Bora Bar? I’d enjoy the company. Besides, it’s never a good idea to drink alone.”

  And here I thought she was joking, Mallory marveled. “I’d be happy to join you,” she said, suddenly a lot less interested in increasing the amount of caffeine in her veins than she was in picking Frieda’s brain.

  She was curious about whether the hotel bar would actually be open at this hour. Much to her amazement, it turned out Frieda wasn’t the only tourist who needed a little extra something in her morning glass of juice in order to get going. A surprising number of people had bellied up to the bar, which looked like an island hut, complete with a straw-covered roof. Most of them were working on what looked like traditional brunch drinks, screwdrivers and Bloody Marys and mimosas. But a few were hitting the harder stuff, slurping clear brown liquid out of highball glasses, looks of desperation in their eyes.

  Mallory hovered a few feet away, not quite able to bring herself to join the early-morning bar scene. But Frieda rushed past her and plopped down on one of the wooden stools. By the time Mallory slid onto the seat next to her, Frieda was waving coyly at a bleach blond bartender with a surfer boy look.

  “What can I get for you lovely ladies?” he asked, sliding a flowered cocktail napkin in front of each of them. The Hawaiian shirt he was wearing made him look as if he and Phil used the same fashion consultant.

  “You first,” Mallory urged.

  She expected Frieda to be a mimosa girl. Instead, she barked, “Whiskey, neat.”

  The bartender just nodded. “Any particular brand?”

  “Johnny Walker Black. And supersize me.”

  He was already filling a glass as Mallory said, “I’ll have a glass of cranberry juice.”

  “You got it,” Surfer Sam replied.

  Mallory had barely taken her first sip when she glanced over at Frieda and saw that she’d already gulped down half her drink. She had a feeling she’d just stumbled upon the secret behind the woman’s eternal cheerfulness.

  At the moment, however, Frieda’s ebullience was nowhere in sight.

  “I can’t believe Phil is dead,” Frieda said morosely, staring into what remained of her Scotch. “And what a way to go! Imagine, being stabbed with a spear. And it wasn’t even a real spear!”

  “I overheard one of the cops saying he might have drowned,” Mallory commented.

  “You think that’s better?” Frieda countered. “Drowning in a fake waterfall is better than being stabbed to death with a fake spear?”

  “The whole thing is an unspeakable tragedy.” Mallory hoped her comment would steer the conversation away from a debate of the merits of one undignified way of dying compared to another.

  Frieda took a few more gulps of her version of the Breakfast of Champions. Then, reaching over and putting a comforting hand on Mallory’s wrist, she said, “I know the police consider you a suspect. But I know better. You never even met Phil until yesterday, right? That means you didn’t have enough time to develop a festering hatred for the man, the way so many other people did.”

  Mallory’s eyes widened at the woman’s bluntness. Then she noticed that Frieda was starting to slur her words. Which, she decided, made this the ideal time to pump her for information.

  “I thought you a
nd Phil were friends,” she said. “At least, that’s the impression I got from watching you two interact.”

  Frieda let out a snort that was hardly the thing anyone would expect from a woman who easily fit the Sweet Little Old Lady profile. “Phil Diamond didn’t have any friends. He used people.”

  “I guess that doesn’t surprise me,” Mallory said. “How long did you know him?”

  “Forever,” Frieda replied. “At least that’s how it feels. I first got to know Phil in the eighties, back when he was still writing for a newspaper here in Florida called the Orlando Observer. I met him at some conference. Atlanta, I think it was. Anyway, we spent a few nights hanging out at the hotel bar together. That pretty much solidified our friendship, especially since after a few drinks most people start looking a lot better. Of course, the Observer is long gone. But back in those days—and I’m talking at least twenty years ago—Phil was really somebody. At least in the world of travel journalists.”

  “Are you serious?” Mallory was surprised that the surly, chain-smoking string bean of a man had ever been somebody in any world.

  “Sure. He had a lot of clout. He became one of the Observer’s most popular columnists. He called his column ‘Diamond in the Rough’ because he was famous for telling it like it was, with no holds barred. Phil Diamond was somebody who could launch a hotel and make it the one place everybody wanted to go. The other side of the coin was that one bad review from him could mean that a hotel or a restaurant or even an entire Caribbean island would have a bad season.”

  Shrugging, she added, “But then, he disappeared into thin air. A few years ago, his name suddenly started popping up again. He’d moved to California and was writing for newspapers, magazines…nothing that was considered top of the line. It looked to me like he’d hit the bottom of the barrel.”

  Frieda paused to finish her drink, then signaled the bartender for another. “One thing about Phil: He was a survivor. The next time he resurfaced, he was writing for the Internet. He was certainly smart enough to jump on that bandwagon. Once computers came onto the scene, everything changed. All of a sudden, the opportunities for travel writers exploded.

  “Of course, most of the time there isn’t much money in it. But for somebody like Phil, who was addicted to travel, just having the chance to live a life of globetrotting was more than enough. As far as I know, he was happy writing for second-rate websites, like the one he was currently tied up with, just because it kept him in the game.”

  “BeenThereDoneThat-dot-com isn’t a good website?” Mallory asked.

  “Nope. See, there’s a hierarchy in the journalism business,” Frieda explained. She paused to pounce on her fresh drink. “The New York Times is always at the top, along with the other big name newspapers like the Washington Post and the Philadelphia Inquirer. So are the glossy magazines like Condé Nast Traveler and Travel + Leisure.

  “Lifestyle magazines like Food & Wine and Gourmet offer some opportunities, too, since they write for a pretty sophisticated audience. The same goes for major magazines with a general readership, like GQ or Elle or Vogue. From there, the list of top media depends on your field. For athletic types, for example, Outdoors is big. Pays well, great exposure, good assignments.

  “Of course, some of the papers and magazines frown upon travel junkets—free press trips, like the one we’re on. They pride themselves on only accepting articles from journalists who haven’t accepted any freebies. They think it keeps the writers from being influenced. You know, that they’ll be reluctant to write anything bad. I suppose they have a point. The problem is that travel is expensive and writers aren’t exactly known for having tons of money. And while some magazines and newspapers pay travel expenses, most don’t. The bottom line is that a lot of places would never get any exposure in the press if they didn’t invite writers as their guests, all expenses paid. Personally, I have no problem with that. After all, movie reviewers don’t pay for their own tickets and restaurant reviewers don’t pay for their own meals. So what’s the difference?”

  “It’s true that practically all travel articles are positive, though,” Mallory mused. “You never read one that says ‘This is a place you shouldn’t go.’”

  “My feelings exactly.” Frieda took a few more gulps, then commented, “The magazine you’re writing for, The Good Life, is terrific. Especially for somebody like you who’s just getting started. You really lucked out.”

  “I kind of fell into it,” Mallory admitted. “How did you start out?”

  “Back in the sixties, I started writing for a couple of local papers in Brooklyn. I wrote about anything I got assigned. My goal was to put together a bunch of clips. As I built up my portfolio, I kept pitching ideas to bigger and better outlets. Before long, I could pick and choose my assignments, writing about whatever I chose.”

  Frieda had just about finished her second drink. All of a sudden, it was as if she’d hit her limit. Her eyes became glazed, her shoulders slumped, and her words went from slightly slurred to barely comprehensible.

  “It’s getting late,” Mallory said, dismayed by Frieda’s rapid disintegration. She took some cash out of her wallet and tucked it under her empty juice glass. “I’d better get going. But it was fun talking to—”

  “Where y’goin’?” Frieda asked, shoving her hand into her purse and fumbling around.

  “Actually, I’m checking out an attraction that sounds really fun,” Mallory replied brightly. “It’s a wildlife preserve and alligator theme park called Gatorland. But it also has other types of reptiles, especially crocodiles. I understand it has other animals, too, like exotic birds and llamas.”

  “Sounds great,” Frieda mumbled. “At least if you like crocogators…Hah! Didja hear what I just said? Crocogators! Hey, I’m a comedian!”

  Mallory smiled wanly. Amazing what a few whiskey smoothies for breakfast can do for one’s creativity, she thought.

  Sliding off her bar stool to show she was serious, Mallory pointedly said, “I really have to get on the road.”

  “Hey, y’mind if I come, too?” Frieda asked. “I’m supposed to go over to the new Disney theme park this morning. Whazzit called? Animal Kingdom? A lot of people who read Go, Seniors! are roller coaster fanatics, and they’re supposed to have a really wild one called…I forget. But for some reason, I’m not feeling so great. My stomach’s a little queasy. Must have been something I ate. So maybe I’ll just tag along with you instead, okay?”

  Mallory hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to Just Say No. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with a single one.

  “Sure,” she finally agreed.

  If nothing else, she thought, accompanying me sightseeing will get her away from the bar. And maybe she can stretch out in the backseat and sleep off her breakfast binge.

  But just in case Frieda decided to duplicate her famous Epcot skinny-dipping routine in one of Gatorland’s swamps, she resolved to keep her away from the alligators and crocodiles.

  The crocogators, too.

  “Fasten your seat belt, Frieda,” Mallory said once Frieda had followed her out to the parking lot and collapsed into the passenger seat of the PT Cruiser. “We want you to be safe.”

  “Shafe,” Frieda repeated. After fumbling with the strap for an excruciatingly long time, she finally managed to buckle up.

  “We’re off!” Mallory cried with the same forced cheerfulness.

  She was about to put the car into reverse when her cell phone trilled. She grabbed it out of her purse and flipped it open. She didn’t bother to check the screen, since she assumed either Jordan or Amanda was calling.

  “Hello?” she said, wondering what on earth she was going to say. She wasn’t exactly anxious to tell her children that one of the other writers on her trip had turned up floating in two feet of water, the homicide detective investigating the case had placed her on his list of suspects, and at the moment she was shuttling around town with a drunken senior citizen wearing sparkly rhinestones that were the sa
me shade of silver as her hair.

  So she was startled when she heard Trevor Pierce say cheerfully, “Good morning, Mallory. I was just calling to see how things are going with my favorite travel writer.”

  7

  “The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see.”

  —Gilbert K. Chesterton

  Trevor!” Mallory cried. “What a surprise!”

  Surprise was an understatement. Hearing her boss’s voice was more like a shock. The last thing she wanted was for him to know she’d landed herself in the middle of a murder—not to mention a murder investigation. At her job interview, he’d made it clear he believed in her more than she believed in herself. Yet she wasn’t exactly doing a crackerjack job of handling things, and she couldn’t help feeling she’d let him down her very first time out.

  “So how’s the fearless travel writer faring in the wilds of Orlando?” Trevor asked, chuckling.

  “I’m doing fine!” she exclaimed, trying to match her boss’s upbeat tone. “Absolutely great, in fact.”

  “See that? I knew you could handle this assignment.”

  “Piece of cake,” she replied, the words sticking in her throat.

  “I knew I made a good choice,” Trevor continued. “The moment you walked into my office, I could tell I’d found someone who could take care of herself. Get the job done, too.”

  I can’t let him down, Mallory thought, blinking hard to stop the stinging in her eyes. I don’t even want him to know that I’ve come under the scrutiny of a homicide detective.

  Being reminded of Trevor’s confidence in her made her more determined than ever to find the real culprit.

  “Well, don’t hesitate to give me a call if anything comes up,” Trevor continued. “The Florida tourism people are pretty sharp, but it’s always possible you’ll run into something unexpected.”