Murder Packs a Suitcase (10 page)

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 and 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 same 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

T
revor!” 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.”

“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.