Murder Packs a Suitcase (4 page)

A very busy travel writer. The last seventy-two hours had been the whirlwind she'd anticipated. She'd freshened up warm-weather clothes that hadn't seen the outside of a cardboard box since September. She'd gotten a haircut along with the leg waxing and, as a last-minute splurge, a pedicure, making a statement about this new chapter of her life by opting for cherry-red toenails—although she'd drawn the line at her pedicurist's suggestion that she add a tiny palm tree on each toe. She'd bought three different guidebooks, then spent both Friday and Saturday nights reading them cover to cover, flagging the important pages with Post-its.

But while she did her best to enjoy herself, she'd carried out all her preparations under the watchful and disapproving eye of her daughter. A daughter who trailed after her the same way she had when she was four years old, talking about the pros and cons of business and law so incessantly, she wished she could pop a bottle of apple juice into her mouth. Mallory had had no idea an identity crisis could be so noisy. She only hoped she hadn't been so distracted that she hadn't packed sensibly. She could imagine opening her suitcase in Orlando and finding it contained six pairs of pajamas, two tubes of toothpaste, and a wool ski sweater.

As for Jordan, he demonstrated his annoyance over the fact that his mother was making an attempt at reestablishing a life for herself by acting like one of Orlando's best-known residents: Grumpy. He made a point of letting out a loud sigh every few minutes. He also refused to engage in any of their conversations, including the few that Mallory managed to steer away from the topic of careers.

As she climbed into the airport van before the sun came up, she felt as if she finally had a chance to catch her breath for the first time since before her job interview. But that didn't mean she was leaving her apprehensions behind with her sleeping children.

True, it was hard to imagine a destination more user-friendly than Orlando. She told herself the folks from the mega-corporations that dominated central Florida's tourism industry undoubtedly put a great deal of time, effort, and money into making sure that nothing bad ever happened to visitors.

But she hadn't been to that part of the country since Amanda was eight and Jordan was six. And on that trip, the Marlowes stuck to the theme parks. There had been little decision-making, and even less risk, since their trip had consisted primarily of shuttling from their Disney hotel to the various parks on a monorail, waiting in line for one attraction after another, and consuming every single one of their meals on Disney property. In fact, the most daring thing she could recall doing on that trip was going on the Space Mountain ride.

Now, as she waited at the airport gate, her stomach was in knots. The fact that she seemed to be odd man out didn't help. Not surprisingly, she was the only person sitting alone amidst a crowd of couples, families, and every other possible combination of travelers, all of them chattering away excitedly either to one another or to the faceless beings they spoke to on cell phones. She kept reminding herself that there was something to be said for the feeling of autonomy that came from traveling alone, something she hadn't experienced since before she'd married David. She certainly didn't envy the parents of children who were too young to contain their excitement. Case in point was the frazzled-looking mother of the little boy who was already wearing a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. “I want Goofy
now
!” he screamed during his Category Five temper tantrum.

Mallory grimaced, relieved when it was finally time to board. After all, as long as she was earthbound, she could still back out of this crazy adventure. She shuffled through the plane behind the other passengers, checking the seat numbers.

As she neared 12C, she saw that the aisle seat was already occupied. Quite comfortably, too. Sprawled across it was a tall man in his late fifties or early sixties, his face gaunt with leathery skin and his longish gray hair slicked back over his head. He looked like a caricature of a tourist, thanks to his gaudy Hawaiian shirt splashed with orange, yellow, and green parrots and his khaki Bermuda shorts that had so many pockets he probably hadn't needed luggage.

“Excuse me,” she said politely. “I believe you're sitting in my seat.”

He didn't even glance up.

“Excuse me,” she repeated, this time in a louder voice. “I believe you're—”

“I heard you the first time,” he shot back.

“Then why are you still sitting there?” she countered with a smile that she hoped was more pleasant than she actually felt.

“You can take my seat,” the man told her. “Twenty-three B.”

“I don't want a middle seat, thank you. I want an aisle seat—like this one.”

“Hey, I've got long legs. I need an aisle seat.” To prove his point, he stuck out both legs. They were long, all right. They also had exceptionally knobby knees and pasty white skin that looked as if it hadn't been exposed to sunlight in months.

“In that case,” Mallory said, by this point openly letting her impatience show, “you should have requested an aisle seat when you made your reservation.”

“Is there a problem?” the flight attendant who had just appeared from nowhere asked.

“There doesn't have to be,” the man said. “Not if this lady will go sit in twenty-three B.”

“This is my seat,” Mallory said. “See? Here's my boarding pass.”

The flight attendant glanced at it. “Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to move. This isn't your seat.”

“What difference does it make?” he shot back. “I have long legs and I need to sit on the aisle.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but this seat belongs to this woman.” By this point, most of the other passengers in the vicinity had stopped chattering. The altercation that had brought the boarding process to a standstill was evidently much more interesting than anything they had to say to their traveling companions.

“Why can't she just sit in twenty-three B?” the man demanded.

“She's made it quite clear that she prefers the seat she was assigned.” The flight attendant looked ready to strangle him with one of those oxygen masks that drop from the ceiling in the event of an emergency. “Now, if you'll please get up and go back to your own—”

“I'm writing down your name,” the man barked. “I'm going to notify the airline of your unprofessional behavior as soon as we land. You obviously don't know who I am, do you?”

“Sir, our policy is the same for everyone,” the flight attendant insisted.

“Whatever.” He stalked off to his assigned seat, muttering under his breath the entire time.

Mallory had a feeling she wasn't the only one who was relieved. She was also glad his real seat wasn't anywhere near hers.

As she sat down in the seat she'd fought so hard for, she tried to push the uncomfortable interlude out of her mind. In fact, she forced herself to picture a relaxing setting the way Amanda had taught her, even though she hadn't had much luck with it the last time around. She was determined to do everything she could to make this trip a success, not only to prove to Trevor Pierce that she could do it, but also to prove it to herself.

She settled back and fastened her seat belt. It was time to take off.

“Welcome to Orlando, Ms. Marlowe,” the car rental agent said warmly. Frowning at his computer screen, he added, “I see a compact car has been reserved for you. For only eight dollars a day more, we can upgrade you to a mid-size.” Beaming at her across the counter, he added, “How does a PT Cruiser sound?”

“No, thanks,” Mallory replied, irritated by his sales pitch. Do I look
that
naive? she wondered. “A compact is just fine.”

The rental agent clicked a few keys. “Are you sure? It only comes to an additional forty dollars.”

“I'll stick with the compact, thanks.” The fact that
The Good Life
had reserved the least expensive class of rental car indicated that they clearly preferred to keep her expenses down. Thriftiness aside, she really was just as happy with a compact car. Somehow, it seemed simpler to maneuver in an unfamiliar place, not to mention easier to park.

“Actually,” the rental agent said, clearing his throat, “we don't have any compact cars available at the moment. How about if I give you the PT Cruiser for the same price?”

“That's fine,” she agreed, hiding her amusement.

It wasn't until he walked her over to the shiny, cherry-red car parked right outside that she realized that motoring around Orlando in a car like this was going to be a lot more exciting than it would have been in the usual stodgy rental car—especially a car that matched her shiny new toenails. In fact, once she was flying along I-4 with the windows open, luxuriating in the feeling of the Florida sunshine warming her face and the wind messing up her hair, it occurred to her for the first time that this whole trip was going to be fun.

She realized that up until this moment, she had been thinking of her first press trip as kind of a test, a way to see whether she was hardy enough to take her place in the land of the living again. Yet now that she was actually here, it seemed like it could be just as enjoyable as going on a real vacation.

As she merged into the fast lane, speeding past palm trees, she marveled over how much a simple change of scenery was altering her mood. Not only did the New York winter feel far away. So did her nervousness over accepting this job, and even the argument she'd had with the obnoxious stranger on the airplane. Most surprisingly, her guilt over leaving Amanda and Jordan behind also seemed like something in the distant past.

When she turned onto International Drive, the main thoroughfare of Orlando's tourist district and the location of her hotel, Mallory was startled by the kaleidoscope of color that suddenly surrounded her. The street was lined with a hodgepodge of billboards and neon signs. Set farther back from the road was one over-the-top building after another, each as outrageous as anything that could be found in Fantasyland. The same thrill she remembered from her childhood trips to Florida was shooting through her like a jolt of electricity.

Her eyes widened as she cruised past a tremendous store called Bargain World, its entire facade covered with gaudy murals. The artwork featured kids on a roller coaster and an eagle as big as a small airplane sporting an Olympic gold medal. For some inexplicable reason, a giant flying saucer hovered over the entrance. As if all that wasn't startling enough, gigantic statues of Michael Jordan and David Beckham were poised in front, each one well over a story high, as if these larger-than-life figures had literally become larger than life. The discount-ticket shop next door, which was housed in a bright orange-red lighthouse, seemed practically ordinary by comparison.

Farther down the road, she passed a Hawaiian-themed miniature golf course, complete with a fake volcano, tiki torches that blazed even in daylight, and a rickety wooden footbridge that crossed a waterfall. Right next door was a tremendous white building with dignified columns and a large staircase leading up to the front door—the whole thing built upside down. She recognized it as WonderWorks, a hands-on science museum she'd read about in her guidebooks.

Orlando is definitely kitsch headquarters, Mallory decided, almost embarrassed to admit what a kick she was getting over seeing it all for the first time in over a decade. This was truly the home of bad taste, all in the name of good fun—just as Trevor suspected.

As she turned into the parking of the Polynesian Princess Hotel, still feeling a little like Dorothy on day one of her trip to Oz, she saw that her hotel fit right in with all the other architectural flights of fancy surrounding it. A profusion of plants lined the front, tropical flowers in bright pinks, oranges, and yellows that were interspersed among a variety of lush, healthy-looking palm trees.

The open-air lobby was smothered in Polynesian-style artifacts, none of which came even close to looking authentic. Elongated masks that would have been frightening if they hadn't worn big, welcoming grins better suited to smiley faces than primitive tribes hung above the entrance to the gift shop. Barrel-shaped drums decorated in petroglyph-style motifs served as trash cans. Clutching a sign indicating the direction of the Tiki Tiki Teahouse was a smirking tiki god carved from wood and painted in Day-Glo colors—perhaps the god of gluttony, or at least twenty-four-hour dining. The forbidding-looking spears affixed to the walls didn't do nearly as good a job of screaming “Welcome.” In fact, they were a harsh reminder that Polynesian culture was about more than cheerful tiki gods and multipurpose drums.

Yet all these fake tributes to the South Seas were dwarfed by the lobby's focal point: a tremendous volcano. The black, rocky mountain that emerged from a tangle of thick green foliage towered over two stories high. Hot orange lava, or at least some synthetic substance that looked like it, oozed out of the top, beneath a cloud of black smoke. The volcano was framed by two waterfalls that splashed over rocks she assumed were made out of anything but real stone, then spilled into a dark pool that meandered toward the front desk.