Mentally I ran through the calls I had scheduled for that morning. My first appointment was a spaying in Metchogue at eight o’clock. Given the fact that it was still practically the middle of the night, that gave me plenty of time to meet Erin for breakfast.
“How about six-thirty at the Spartan Diner?” I suggested. “It’s in Niamogue, right on Route forty-seven.”
“I know the place. I’ll be there. And Jess? Please don’t say anything about this to anybody, okay?”
“Erin,” I asked, struck by the bizarreness of this entire conversation, “is everything okay?”
“That’s the thing, Jessie,” she replied with a nervous laugh. “I don’t think it is.”
“Can you at least give me an idea of what all this is—?”
She never answered my question. In fact, she’d already hung up.
With a loud sigh, I dragged myself out of bed and embarked on my morning pilgrimage to worship at the feet of Mr. Coffee. As usual, my two dogs, Max and Lou, were already in high gear, scampering around my feet with much more energy than any living being should have before the sun has risen. My two cats were just coming to life, stretching and yawning. As for my blue-and-gold macaw, he was already wide awake. Prometheus was always up with the birds, mainly because he is one. My Jackson’s chameleon, Leilani, was awake, too, blinking at me from inside her glass tank with the eye that was on the side of her head facing me.
But I was still too busy ruminating about the strange phone call from Erin to pay any of them much attention.
What’s with all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense? I wondered as I shuffled into the kitchen.
My old vet school buddy had sounded as if she was smack in the middle of a drama—and frankly, the last thing I wanted was to be recruited for a supporting role.
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Out with the old, in with the new, Mallory thought as she sat in the waiting area at JFK Airport early Sunday morning. She wondered if she was being overly dramatic by imagining that the plane she was about to board would carry her away from her old life and into a brand-new life, one in which she played the role of travel writer.
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. She’d bought three different guidebooks, then spent both Friday and Saturday nights reading them cover to cover, flagging the important pages.
But instead of having the chance to enjoy any of it, 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 nonstop about the pros and cons of business versus law. Mallory 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 woolen ski sweater.
As for Jordan, he demonstrated his annoyance 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 Amanda’s career.
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, much 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 riding the Space Mountain roller coaster.
Now, as she waited to board the plane, 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 amid a crowd of couples, families, and every other possible combination of travelers. 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 four-year-old boy wearing a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. “I want Goofy now!” he screamed during his category-five temper tantrum.
Mallory tried to focus on the fact that she was here on a mission.
You have work to do, she told herself, whipping out the small notebook she’d brought along in her purse. Tensing the muscles in her forehead, she jotted down the ideas that had occurred to her on the drive to the airport.
“Go to a theme dinner show,” she wrote after realizing that the theatrical productions she’d read about in her guidebooks, evenings that centered around medieval jousting or 1920s gangsters or Arabian horses, undoubtedly offered a good opportunity for some over-the-top experiences that she could include in her article. “Check out other hotels re: décor, etc.,” she added, remembering a poster advertising Disney’s new Animal Kingdom resort that she’d spotted next to the ladies’ room.
And then she had a brainstorm: rating the attractions she visited. She would turn herself into the Roger Ebert of travel. And rather than ranking them with stars or thumbs that went up or down the way restaurant or movie critics did, she would use her own version: one to five flamingos. After all, what screamed “old Florida” more than flamingos?
She was relieved when it was time to board. After all, as long as she was earthbound, she could still back out. 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. She hadn’t meant to sound so cranky. She realized the tension that had been accumulating over the past few days was catching up with her.
“You can take my seat,” the man told her. “Twenty-three B.”
“I don’t want a middle seat. 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, letting her impatience show, “you should have requested an aisle seat when you made your reser
vation.”
“Is there a problem?” the flight attendant 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 growled. “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 drops 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 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.
Also by Cynthia Baxter
DEAD CANARIES DON’T SING
PUTTING ON THE DOG
LEAD A HORSE TO MURDER
HARE TODAY, DEAD TOMORROW
RIGHT FROM THE GECKO
WHO’S KITTEN WHO?
A Bantam Book / October 2007
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Cynthia Baxter
* * *
Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90418-5
v3.0
Who's Kitten Who? Page 31
