Murder Packs a Suitcase

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Jordan crunched through a mouthful of orange. “Why don’t you toss a coin? Heads means law school, tails means business school—”

  “Do you really expect me to take career advice from someone who spent less time in college than he did at Boy Scout camp?” Amanda asked icily, fixing her brother with a scowl.

  “Hey, can I help it if college didn’t turn out to be the way I expected?” Jordan shot back. “Besides, the timing for a major change in my life was a little awkward, don’t you think? Since Dad just died six months ago?”

  “If there’s one thing Daddy would have wanted,” Amanda countered, “it would be for you to get a college degree.”

  “Is that what it’s about?” Jordan sneered. “The degree? What about all the important stuff I’m supposed to be learning?”

  “Could you two please just stop?” Mallory cried. She put her hands over her ears, as if that could drown out the bickering she’d been listening to almost since Jordan first started talking as a baby. It was at that point that Amanda had realized she’d gotten more than a little brother—she’d gotten a sparring partner. Mallory knew her children loved each other, but they never seemed to tire of replaying the same script over and over again.

  At the moment, she simply didn’t have the patience for it. Not when she was doing battle with her own demons, the ones that kept bringing up the possibility that she was still too fragile to handle the new challenge she had suddenly been handed. For once, she wanted to focus on her own uncertainty and let her children deal with theirs by themselves, even if merely having that thought made her feel guilty.

  “Amanda, I think you should enjoy the weekend at home, then go back to school Sunday evening,” Mallory said firmly. “I understand that you’ve got a decision to make. But that doesn’t mean you should be skipping classes.”

  “I don’t care about my classes,” Amanda declared, pouting. “Right now it’s more important for me to take a break—one that includes spending some quality time with my mother. I thought you’d be thrilled that I came home for a few days. I figured we could, I don’t know, go shopping at Bloomingdale’s or…or go out for lunch. Aren’t those things mothers and daughters are supposed to do together?”

  No time like the present for Mallory to make her own announcement. “I’m sorry, honey. I would love to take you shopping, but I’m going away. I just got back from an interview at a magazine called The Good Life. The editor offered me a job as a travel writer.”

  Amanda gasped. “You didn’t take it, did you?”

  Mallory’s eyebrows shot up. “I certainly did,” she replied indignantly, wondering at what age children finally figured out that their parents had lives, too. “My first assignment is writing an article about Florida. I’ll be away for five days—all of next week. And to be perfectly honest, even though I’m a little nervous, I’m actually looking forward to it.”

  “Cool, Mom,” Jordan said. Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. Does that mean I’ll have to, like, take out the garbage and stuff like that while you’re away?”

  “You’ve been taking out the garbage since you came back home,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, but you’ve always been around to remind me what day.”

  “Travel writing? That’s so…so extreme!” Amanda exclaimed. “Your job at the Rivington Record is nice and safe. You don’t even have to go beyond the town limits!”

  Mallory was growing increasingly impatient. She could practically see the list she’d been composing in her head. And of all the things she had on her list, arguing with her children about whether or not she was capable of flying to Florida for five days to write about alligator farms and seashell earrings wasn’t on it.

  “Sweetie,” she said, her exasperation beginning to seep through, “you’re the one who’s been on my case about meeting new people and having new experiences.”

  “Well, yes, but…but…when are you going?” Amanda demanded.

  “Early Sunday morning.”

  “But Mother, you can’t just leave me!” Amanda cried, tears welling in her eyes. “I need you!”

  “Which day is recycling?” Jordan asked, suddenly agitated. “I can never remember if it’s Tuesday or Thursday.”

  Mallory sighed. She’d so desperately wanted Amanda and Jordan to be happy for her. Or at least accepting. If anyone knew how David’s death had affected her, it was the two of them. They’d witnessed her transformation from a confident, self-reliant woman to someone who was so unsure of herself that deciding what to make for dinner had become overwhelming.

  Then again, they were children. Her children. Up until this point, she had always been available to them, thanks to her flexible schedule as a freelancer for the Record. She’d had the time to drive Jordan all over Westchester County for his soccer games and the energy to bake chocolate chip cookies with Amanda after she learned she’d missed becoming class valedictorian by one thousandth of a point—even if it was ten o’clock at night.

  “Just call your new boss and tell him something came up,” Amanda urged.

  Mallory glanced at her purse, still lying on the front table. In it were her e-ticket and her itinerary. Not long before, those pieces of paper had made her feel excited, if apprehensive, about the fact that she was about to embark on a brand-new chapter of her life.

  “I’m sorry, Amanda,” she said gently. “Maybe the timing isn’t right for you, but it couldn’t be better for me.” With a little shrug, she added, “I’m going.”

  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 thinking that the plane she was about to board would carry her away from her old life and into a brand-new one, 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, 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 e
ight 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.