Murder Packs a Suitcase

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I’ll certainly let you know if that happens,” Mallory assured him.

  As she snapped her cell phone shut, her sidekick for the day let out a loud snort. Alarmed, Mallory glanced over at the passenger seat, and saw that Frieda had dozed off and was slumped to one side, so that the car window served as her pillow. If it wasn’t for Frieda’s seat belt, Mallory suspected she would have sunk to the floor. Her mouth was wide open, and through it she emitted a sound more fitting to Fred Flintstone than a sparkly senior citizen.

  At least she’s breathing, Mallory thought, wondering how she’d ever let herself get into this situation.

  She’d just begun to appreciate the silence when Frieda burst forth with, “Schlovely out, zint?”

  It took Mallory a second or two to realize that that translated to It’s lovely out, isn’t it?

  “Yes, Frieda,” she agreed. “It’s a very nice day.”

  She groaned internally. Earlier, Frieda’s choice of Johnny Walker as her breakfast companion had worked wonders—just as Mallory had hoped, she’d spilled her guts about Phil Diamond. But now that the two of them were about to spend the day at a park filled with the type of creepy-crawlies that usually play starring roles in nightmares, Frieda’s inebriated state was bound to be a major liability.

  “Tell me again where we’re going.” Frieda glanced around, looking confused about why she was sitting in a car.

  “Gatorland,” Mallory replied, trying to keep her irritation in check. “It’s a preserve that bills itself as the ‘Alligator Capital of the World.’”

  Mallory decided to do most of the talking, since at least she still had the ability to pronounce words correctly. Drawing upon the history she’d found on the attraction’s website, she explained, “A couple named Owen and Pearl Godwin founded it back in the 1940s. Owen had several different jobs, including butcher and postmaster, but he was fascinated with alligators. He even dug a pit in his own backyard and invited visitors to come view a mother alligator and her babies.”

  “Cute,” Frieda mumbled. “Baby gators, I mean.”

  “But Owen wanted to open a real alligator preserve,” Mallory went on, encouraged by the fact that at least some of what she was saying seemed to be penetrating Frieda’s drunken haze. “He raised money by bringing a thirteen-foot alligator named Cannibal Jake up north during the summer and charging ten cents to see him. But his fund-raising really took off when he acquired a crocodile named Bone Crusher that was even bigger. Fifteen feet long, in fact. He weighed something like twelve hundred pounds and was supposed to be the largest captive crocodile in the world. Owen offered a thousand dollars to anyone who could prove otherwise, which never happened.”

  “Wouldn’t wanna measure a crocodile.” Frieda still sounded as if her mouth was stuffed with cotton. “Maybe if he was shleeping…”

  “When the Godwins opened this place in 1949,” Mallory continued, “it featured an Indian village along with the reptiles. The Seminoles who lived there wrestled alligators. In fact, alligator wrestling is still part of the entertainment, along with a bunch of other shows.”

  Frieda brightened. “Maybe they’ll ask for volunteers from the audience. It would be great if I could include my firsthand experience in my article!”

  The image of Frieda in her hot pink hot pants and rhinestone Party Girl T-shirt engaging in hand-to-claw combat with a humongous slithering reptile was chilling. Of course, the strong smell of alcohol that wafted from Frieda’s mouth every time she opened it was likely to send even the toughest alligator fleeing in the opposite direction.

  “I guess it depends on how liberal their insurance coverage is,” Mallory replied politely. Anxious to move away from the topic of Frieda’s daredevilry, she said, “Steven Spielberg filmed some of the scenes from his Indiana Jones movies there, you know.”

  She was relieved that they’d finally reached their destination. Near an odd assortment of buildings nestled amidst what looked like swamplands, she spotted a gigantic pair of alligator jaws that was clearly visible from the road. They were wide open, and it appeared that entering the park required walking through them, taking care not to hit one’s head on the huge, pointed teeth.

  If that isn’t the old kitsch Florida, Mallory thought with amusement, I don’t know what is. She pulled out her camera to snap a few photos, meanwhile making a mental note to write about the gigantic gator jaws in her article.

  It wasn’t until she was about to turn into the parking lot that she noticed a group of at least twenty picketers on the side of the road. They marched back and forth angrily, thrusting placards into the air so passing motorists could see them, chanting a slogan Mallory couldn’t quite make out.

  Up ahead she spotted a cop wearing a uniform and a disgusted look. She switched off the air-conditioning and rolled down the window.

  “What’s going on?” Mallory asked.

  “Drive to the back,” he instructed, waving her toward the section of the parking lot that was farthest away from the protestors.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” the policeman informed her. “Gatorland is open for business as usual. Please move on.”

  Mallory drove away slowly, craning her neck to get a better look at what all the fuss was about.

  “‘Boycott Gatorland!’” she read aloud. “‘Textiles for Reptiles!’ ‘Put Vipers in Diapers!’ ‘Stamp Out Animal Nudity!’”

  “Hrumph!” Frieda barked. “Looks like those idiots from PANTS are at it again.”

  “PANTS? What’s that?” Mallory pulled the PT Cruiser into a parking space in the very last row, since she didn’t know if her car insurance covered scratches made by picket signs.

  “It’s an acronym. Stands for ‘Put Animal Nudity To Shame.’”

  Mallory just stared at her. “You’re not serious.”

  “Yup. Very serious. PANTS is a bunch of crazies who believe it’s obscene for animals to walk around naked,” Frieda explained. The commotion seemed to be sobering her up. At least, if her improved pronunciation was any indication. “A few years back, their founding members started a movement to make dogs wear pants. They claimed it was obscene for canine genitalia to be on view. Their slogan was ‘Trousers for Bowsers.’ Since then, they’ve expanded their focus. They want all animals to wear clothes, just like people.”

  Peering out the car window, Frieda mused, “Looks like they’ve added reptiles to their list. Frankly, I don’t remember seeing any alligator’s private parts. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t even know where to look. And how on earth would you keep a pair of tighty-whiteys on a snake?”

  No matter how ridiculous PANTS’s concerns seemed to both Mallory and Frieda, their protest had attracted media attention. A small white van with WFTV ORLANDO printed on the side was parked near the picketers, and positioned right outside was a cameraman with a huge video camera balanced on one shoulder. A half-dozen men and women carrying notepads stood nearby, chatting and laughing as if covering a story this absurd was the equivalent of a coffee break.

  Reporters. Mallory’s heartbeat quickened. She wondered if any of them might know something about someone who’d been a reporter a long time ago. Someone named Phil Diamond.

  Studying them more closely, she saw that only one looked old enough to have been doing anything besides learning to read twenty years earlier, back around the time Phil was a well-known columnist based in Orlando. This particular man looked as if he’d said good-bye to fifty long ago, thanks to a heavily lined forehead that was highlighted by a seriously receding hairline. His outfit—baggy gray pants worn with a brown belt and a rumpled white shirt with rolled-up sleeves that revealed exceptionally hairy arms—made him look as if he’d been dressed by Lou Grant’s costume designer.

  She was suddenly itching to talk to him. “Frieda,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, “why don’t you go ahead and get our tickets? Here are the vouchers Courtney put in my press kit. I’ll join you in a minute.”


  “What’s the problem?”

  Actually, what Frieda had said was Wazza problem? Mallory realized with chagrin that the older woman wasn’t nearly as far along in the sobering up process as she’d hoped.

  “I want to go talk to those reporters,” she said. Thinking fast, she added, “I want to see if I can get some additional information about Gatorland’s history. For my article.”

  “Okay,” Frieda agreed sullenly, opening the car door and unfastening her seat belt. As soon as she did, she rolled out of the car and sank to the ground, where she lay in a heap.

  “Frieda!” Mallory yelled. “Are you all right?”

  Much to her relief, the older woman started to giggle. “Oops!” she exclaimed. “Guess I lost my balance!”

  Right, Mallory thought crossly. Must have been that mysterious something you ate.

  At least she’s not hurt, she told herself, searching for a silver lining. But she knew there was no way she could follow through with her plan of cornering the reporter who looked about Phil’s age. Not when Frieda wasn’t even capable of standing up, much less finding the ticket booth and carrying out a business transaction.

  She watched mournfully as the cameraman from WFTV gathered his gear and headed into the van. The reporters, meanwhile, began wandering off in different directions.

  A terrific opportunity, she thought, down the drain.

  As she half carried, half dragged Frieda across the parking lot and through the tremendous alligator jaws with her teeth gritted, she wondered how many visitors got tossed to the hungry, snap-happy creatures every year by friends and family. She immediately felt guilty—or at least hopeful that Detective Martinez hadn’t somehow planted a computer chip in her head that enabled him to hear her thoughts.

  Still, once she and Frieda were inside, Mallory decided to make the best of it. After all, she was here for a reason: to evaluate Gatorland and determine whether or not it captured the funky flavor of the past.

  Besides, she’d immediately found herself transported to another world, one that resembled the Forest Primeval—or at least the old Florida. The grounds were covered with dense greenery: palm trees, bushes with leaves the size of snowboards, flowering shrubs that were as big as cars. Scattered throughout were swampy ponds that served as home sweet home to the preserve’s animal residents. One was occupied by coral-colored flamingos perched on tall, skinny legs that looked more like stalks than part of anyone’s anatomy.

  But the stars of the show were the alligators—even though they weren’t exactly acting like stars. They lay as motionless as if they were merely plastic models of the real thing, some half submerged in the water and others strewn across islands like logs.

  Mallory found them so grotesque that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to stare at them. But at the same time, there was something fascinating about them. Studying them was like watching the most frightening scene in a horror movie: she couldn’t look away, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there in the first place.

  Running along one side of what appeared to be a very large pool of water were zoo-style displays of the other animals exhibited at Gatorland: tropical birds with brilliantly colored feathers, a black bear named Judy, and a bright yellow snake coiled inside what looked like a doghouse. Then there was Dog Gone Gator, a huge black beast that had caused a ruckus when he was running free, since his idea of a tasty snack was munching on somebody’s beloved house pet. Apparently it had been decided that the best solution, short of sending him to the great swamp in the sky, was incarceration.

  All of it was fascinating, and as close to the old Florida as she’d been since she arrived. The fact that the attraction dated back to the 1940s certainly helped. But because it was a preserve, it had remained undeveloped. Its rustic character made it timeless—and exactly the kind of place she’d hoped to find still flourishing.

  There were other old-style touches, as well, many of which definitely fell into the kitsch category. On display was a sign from the early days, a crude alligator cut out of plywood, painted bright green, and labeled 13 MILES. WORLD FAMOUS GATORLAND. “LEGENDARY.” A life-size, startlingly lifelike model of an alligator was perfect for photo sessions that were guaranteed to impress the folks back home. The walls inside and outside the rest rooms were painted with a jungle scene.

  Mallory loved all of it. Five flamingos, she decided. Gatorland definitely captures the old Florida. No neon, no white-knuckle thrill rides, no special effects. Just alligators in their natural environment.

  Still, the fact that Frieda kept swaying from side to side whenever the two of them stopped to look at something prompted Mallory to keep her viewing time to a minimum. When the older woman caught her balance by leaning against a gate with a sign that read, DO NOT ENTER OR YOU WILL BE EATEN, Mallory quickly checked the map she’d been given when she entered.

  “How about riding the train that goes through the Jungle Crocs of the World exhibit?” she suggested, thinking that sitting down for a while might not be a bad idea.

  “Nah, too boring,” Frieda scoffed. “That’s for babies and old codgers. My readers hate that kind of thing.”

  “Then how about the Swamp Walk?”

  “Sounds buggy.”

  Mallory sighed. Keeping Frieda entertained was turning out to be as difficult as spending the day with a fussy toddler.

  “Maybe we can check out one of the shows,” she tried, “like the Gator Jumparoo Show.”

  Frieda brightened. “Hey, look at that sign over there! We’re just in time for gator wrestling!”

  Mallory cringed. She wouldn’t put it past Frieda to thrust herself into the limelight in order to get the story she was after—even though it carried the risk of being turned into Purina Gator Chow. Yet Mallory had come to see what Gatorland was all about, and that meant checking out everything.

  “Then gator wrestling it is.”

  She and Frieda followed the other tourists who were shuffling into the small arena that, appropriately enough, was called Gator Wrestlin’ Stadium. Tiers of bleachers surrounded a sand “stage” edged with metal fencing that no doubt was meant to keep the performers safely separated from the audience.

  “Let’s sit inna front!” Frieda demanded.

  “Uh, I think there’s less sun in the back—”

  But Frieda had already plopped down in the front row. “I wanna make sure they see me when I put my hand in the air.”

  Before Mallory had a chance to talk Frieda out of it, a blond young man stepped onto the patch of sand that served as the stage. He wore jeans, a khaki shirt with GL embroidered over the pocket, and an Indiana Jones–style hat.

  “Welcome to Gatorland, everybody!” he cried, cracking a whip. Mallory jumped. So did everyone else in the stadium. Everyone except Frieda, who was still enjoying the benefits of a major muscle relaxant.

  “Many people don’t realize that cattle was once big in Florida,” he continued in the same booming voice. “The cattle herders used to crack whips to round up the cattle and keep them in line—which is how southerners came to be called crackers.” To emphasize his etymology lesson, he cracked his whip loudly a few more times.

  “Okay, folks, we’ve got a great show for you today. My name is Doug and this is Lisa, who’ll be demonstrating just how friendly gators can be.” A tiny blond woman who wore an identical outfit, minus the hat, but probably weighed a hundred pounds less smiled and waved. “Anybody here want to see some alligator wrestlin’?”

  The audience yelled out, “Ye-e-ah!”

  “Anybody want to volunteer?”

  This time, the response was nervous laughter. Only Frieda thrust her hand into the air, yelling, “Pick me! Pick me!”

  Fortunately, sacrificing senior citizens wasn’t on the program. “How about you, young man?” Doug asked, reaching out to a little boy sitting with his family in the third row. “Want to come up so we can see how brave you are?”

  “Rats,” Frieda muttered. “They always pick the kids for
these things.”

  “What’s your name, son?” Doug asked.

  “Kevin,” the recruit answered in an uncertain voice.

  “And how old are you, Kevin?”

  “Six.”

  “Six! That’s great! So you’ve already lived a long and rewarding life.” He paused while the audience laughed. Little Kevin, meanwhile, didn’t look particularly amused. “Now, here’s what I want you to do, my good man. See that opening over there? That leads to the alligator pit where we keep our meanest, toughest alligators. I’d like you to crawl in there and pick out the biggest, scariest one you can find and drag him out by his tail. Okay?”

  Kevin’s eyes grew wide. And then, after glancing at his mother, he nodded.

  “Nah!” Doug insisted. “You don’t really want to do that, do you? I think we’ll leave the wrestling to somebody really tough. Somebody big, somebody strong…Lisa, you want to take over while Kevin goes back to his seat?”

  Relief was written all over poor Kevin’s face. He didn’t even seem to notice that the audience rewarded him with enthusiastic applause as he scurried back to his seat.

  “Hi, everybody,” Lisa cried, leaping into center stage. “Before I get down and dirty with one our gators, let me give you some basic facts. Most gators are seven to eight feet long and weigh 120 to 180 pounds. But they’re ninety percent muscle. They also have a brain the size of a lima bean, which means they’re about as smart as one.”

  She reached into the opening to the pit and pulled her opponent out by the tail. She then immediately sat on his back and held his mouth closed. “This guy has fifteen hundred pounds of pressure in his jaws. Inside his mouth he’s got eighty-two teeth for grabbing his prey. Alligators don’t chew their food, they swallow it whole. So if you ever get caught by a gator, at least you won’t hurt going down!”

  Lisa’s act consisted of wedging the alligator’s mouth underneath her chin and throwing both arms out, as if to say, Look, Ma! No hands!

  As Doug took over once again to do some more showing off, Frieda stood up to leave.